Steele Thankful
by RSteele82
Summary: (Canon Series) Picks up after the conclusion of Steele Tested. Laura struggles with the limitations of her injury; the Steele's celebrate their first Thanksgiving & Christmas as a married couple.
1. Chapter 1: Reflections on Home

_**Picks up after the conclusion of Steele Tested. Laura struggles with the limitations of her injury; the Steele's celebrate their first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years as man and wife.**_

 _ **Pure romance, folks. No trauma until the next round**_

 _ **For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:**_

 _ **Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On**_  
 _ **Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)  
Steele Forsaken**_  
 _ **Steele Mending**_  
 _ **Steele Working out the Details**_  
 _ **Steele Settling In**_  
 _ **Steele Finding Comfort**_  
 _ **Steele Holting on To Christmas**_  
 _ **Steele Holting on To The Holidays**_  
 _ **Holting on to the Moments**_  
 _ **Steele Cold Relief**_  
 _ **Steele Cloned**_  
 _ **Steele Hurdling Obstacles**_  
 _ **Steeling the Big Apple**_  
 _ **Steele Dying to Get it Right**_  
 _ **Holting Steele - Part 1 of the Be Steele My Heart series**_  
 _ **Be Steele My Heart – Part 2 of the Be Steele My Heart series**_  
 _ **Steele Pursued – Part 1 of the Steele Tested series**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Steele Tested – Part 2 of the Steele Tested series  
Steele Thankful**_

 _ **Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write.**_

* * *

As dawn breached the horizon outside the terrace doors, Laura stretched herself awake with cat-like grace, a rather challenging undertaking given her husband's lean frame pinning her to the bed. While they had fallen to sleep after making love in the normal manner – her head nuzzled into the place beneath his shoulder that seemed made for her and her alone; her arm wrapped over his abdomen, hand resting on his ribs; and a leg slung over his hips – she found at some point of the night that position had nearly reversed. Now, Remington lay on his stomach, face burrowed into a pillow, an arm wrapped around her, his hand clasping her waist, and a long leg crossing a hip to tuck itself between her legs. Despite the massive king sized bed that graced their bedroom, they used little of the space as they slept, neither sleeping well unless they had some form of contact with the other. _Well, at least we haven't tumbled out of bed lately,_ she smirked. With a roll of her eyes and a quiet laugh, she sidled out from beneath her husband's limbs, then, glancing a kiss across his cheek, slipped from their bed.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and rubbed them, a soft smile playing on her lips. They'd been living in their new house for a full two weeks now and she was still having a hard time believing that this was her life. Six and a half months ago, on the eve of their first, disastrous wedding upon the fishing trawler, she'd believed she watched everything she'd hoped for crumble around her and lay in ruins at her feet – as much her own doing as his, she was no longer afraid to admit. Now, however? Here she was married to the man she'd loved for years – _blissfully married,_ she corrected, that thought stunning in and of itself – and they were living in a house they'd purchased together, furnished together, and had turned into a home, together.

This room was at the center of it all. _Not his bedroom or my bedroom, but ours_. The recognition of that sent a chill of pleasure down her spine. The brand new bed, from headboard, to frame to mattresses, that only they had ever slept on. The matching nightstands on each side of the bed. Her long dresser with the mirror topping it, his bachelor chest nearby. To the far side of the room, in the sitting area, the couch they'd picked out together, the widescreen TV from his old bedroom, and a tasteful piece of furniture that masked their own personal wine fridge. Already they spent several nights curled around one another on that couch, glasses of wine nearby, watching _The Fugitive_ together – yes, he was still paying off the bet they'd made before their life took an unexpected and nearly disastrous detour.

The décor of the room was the perfect blending of the two of them – a bent towards art deco for him with all the whites, blacks and grays, and splashes of red dashed throughout for her. White curtains with a gray pattern hung at each of the half dozen floor to ceiling windows that spanned either side of the fireplace. When open, they added to the airiness of the room, allowing sunlight to flood it. However, the man who appreciated his sleep had spared no expense when it came to the custom window treatments. When closed, they pitched the room into darkness, so that even at noon when the sun hung high in the sky, the room remained black as night.

By far, her favorite part of the room was the fireplace where her attention was now focused. Many nights they'd flung the bedroom windows fully open and set a blaze going, watching the flames leap and dance as they laid upon the bed, her head in his lap, his hands in hers, when they settled into their nightly ritual before bed. But it was so much more than those moments that made her heart pitter-patter when she looked at the marble structure. Centered above the mantle was his favored picture of their wedding day: Them on the dance floor their faces in profile, their love for one another vivid upon their faces, as the back of fingers skimmed downwards along her bared back. Each time she saw the picture she could recall exactly how she felt at that moment. Staggered on either side of their wedding picture were a series of framed sketches, done by Remington's hand. The first kiss they'd ever shared on the docks. Them, dancing on the terrace in New York. His hand, held in hers, a single finger tracing his palm. Them, spooned around each other in sleep and another of them relaxing on the hammock in Cannes. The two of them wearing robes, kissing, his hand, fingers spread, cupping her head and neck. Him, brushing his lips over her knuckles – he attired in a tux, she in a strapless ball gown. Some of the most poignant moments of their lives and romance, all there before her.

She turned to glance at the bed, looking fondly at the man at the center of it all. He'd stormed into her life more than four years ago, forcing her to make room for him. He'd aggravated her, charmed her, infuriated her, romanced her, pushed her, had even left her… and had scared the hell out of her through it all. He'd also waited for her, and despite all her fears and inhibitions, despite his own past that left him tongue tied and terrified of being abandoned, had dared to allow himself to love her and had managed to dare her to risk her heart again. She nibbled her bottom lip, admiring his bare back and arms. She laughed lightly at his hair sticking up to and fro, the style no doubt due to the attention of her hands last night.

The object of her admiration stirred in his sleep, a hand searching for her – her clue to slip out of the bedroom before her could lure her into a morning romp. Today was her last day of freedom for two weeks, the surgery on her ankle scheduled for the next morning and she'd already been forewarned by her surgeon that he expected her to remain off the foot for that proscribed amount of time. She intended to spend the bulk of the day wrapping up a couple of skip traces and closing files. Then, for the next two weeks, the bulk of the Agency's responsibilities would once again fall on the shoulders of her partner.

She showered quickly, then efficiently blew dry her hair, removing any signs of her hair's natural curl. After applying a light layer of makeup, wrapped only in her robe she made her way downstairs to where a pot of hot coffee should be waiting if the timer started the brew as scheduled. Filling her favorite mug, she stared at the room before her, the one that showed most the merging of their two lives as one. The dining room table from his apartment stood in their informal dining area; the barstools from his kitchen lining the peninsula. The living room furniture they'd chosen together framed the fireplace. And, to the left of that on the raised platform, her most treasured possession: the baby grand he'd given her after her home had been bombed. And above the mantle of the fireplace in the living room, the gift he'd surprised her with the night they'd arrived home from Greece: A nearly life sized painting of the two of them, commissioned off of the very picture that hung above the mantle in their bedroom. She blinked her eyes rapidly, always bowled over by emotion when she thought for any length of time about what she viewed as their true wedding.

Turning left, she exited the house through one of the French doors that led to the covered veranda. Curling up in one of the lounge chairs they purchased, she drew the afghan folded neatly at the bottom of the chair up over her legs. Clutching her mug in both hand, she took a sip of the hot, life-infusing liquid and looked out over their back yard. The large lap pool, the hot tub, the outdoor fireplace and seating area, the outdoor kitchen and the large expanse of lawn beyond it all.

In Greece, when her nightmares were at their worst, Remington had 'given' her two dreams – shared with her the dreams he had of their future together. She'd been… relieved… when his own nightmares had begun that a difficult conversation, a tension relieving massage, some much needed sleep and a day of play on the Aegean had put his demons to rest. If it had come down to reciprocating, she giving him one of her dreams to chase the nightmares away, she would have found herself at a loss. _This_ , this life they'd somehow forged with one another, was her dream, had been since she was a starry eyed teenager: the owner of a successful private detective agency; a man that loved her with all that he was and whom she loved with every fiber of her being; and this amazing house they now owned and had already turned into a home together. And at the center of it all, he was there. Her only answer, then, at her disposal would have been: I already have my dream. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Unbeknownst to her, the man at the center of her thoughts stood behind her, wrapped in his robe and leaning against the jamb of the door through which she'd left the house, watching her silent contemplation. She jumped slightly, drawing a smile to his lips, when he leaned over and swept her hair to the side to press a kiss on the side of her neck.

"Another nightmare?" he asked, his breath warming her ear. He stretched out in the lounge chair next to hers, a cup of tea in his own hands. He'd been concerned when he woke as she still often left their bed to wander the house on her own, trying to deal with the aftermath of the dreams that plagued her.

"No, not at all. I just wanted to get a head start on the day," she assured him, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Ah, last day for a bit and all that, then, eh?" He was treading into these waters reluctantly.

They'd had a couple of explosive arguments in the past two weeks about her upcoming surgery, the one two nights ago heated enough that he'd crawled into bed fully expecting to be tossed out on his ear and relegated to another room for the evening, and frankly, after the things said, he wasn't sure if that was such a bad thing. Instead, after a lengthy silence that seemed to span hours but was actually only minutes, she'd stunned him.

* * *

" _ **I'm sorry," she said so quietly he missed what she'd said the first time, especially in light of the fact they were both laying on their sides, backs to one another, as far apart as possible on the bed. He braced himself for round two on the evening.**_

" _ **My apologies, Miss Holt, I'm afraid I didn't quite hear what you said," he told her, the cool, crisp British accent firmly in place. Across the bed from him, she squeezed her eyes shut and scrunched her nose. His tone, the name he chose to call her, spoke clearly that she'd wounded him in their fight earlier. She rolled over to face his back, tucking her hands under her cheek.**_

" _ **I'm sorry," she repeated. "I don't know what gets into me sometimes. I just don't like feeling as though I have no voice in my own life," she sighed, "Or being told what I can and cannot do."**_

" _ **You don't say."**_

" _ **Remington…" Remorse painted the single word. His heart clenched in his chest and his own anger fizzled. He rolled over to face her.**_

" _ **Laura, no one knows better than I how you dislike it when someone issues an edict and commands you to follow. Perhaps, as you said, my opinion is neither wanted nor needed, but –" She visibly flinched when he repeated to words she'd shouted at him, nearly verbatim.**_

" _ **I didn't mean that," she interjected.**_

" _ **Nevertheless, I simply wish when that venerable temper of yours ignites, that you'd at least try to recall I not only have a vested interest in your welfare, but I also only have your very best interests at heart."**_

" _ **I know you do… even when it might seem otherwise." She sighed heavily. "It's just…" Her words trailed off. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it away from her forehead and folded it his own.**_

" _ **It's just what?" She closed her eyes and shook her head.**_

" _ **I feel like a spectator in my own life, at least where the Agency's concerned. We'd barely brought the Agency back up to full speed when I injured my ankle the first time and was for all intents and purposes sidelined. Then everything that happened last month and now, here I am again barely back for ten days and I'm grounded again." She growled in frustration.**_

" _ **Granted, the situation is less than ideal, but where the Agency is concerned you could never be merely a spectator. As promised, I'll keep you buried up to that pretty little nose of yours in paperwork, we'll review all active cases each evening, you'll make the call on anything of import as you've always done," he reminded her. "I suspect what's really bothering you is that the doctor recognized right off that you'd attempt to wiggle around any limitations he attempted to set while you were in the office, so he chose to eliminate that possibility altogether." She snorted quietly in answer. "It's only two weeks, love, then you'll be right back in the thick of things." She scooted across the bed and pressed her forehead against his chest, her fingers playing with his hair there.**_

" _ **I still hate it." He nodded his head, burying a hand in her hair.**_

" _ **I know you do."**_

* * *

"Mmmm," she hummed her acknowledgment.

"Let's say we get you inside and get a bit of breakfast in you then, eh?" He stood offering her his hand, twining his fingers with her as he led her into the house when she stood. "Fuel that delightful little body for the rigors that lay ahead today." She stopped in her tracks when they stepped through the doors, catching him off guard. He turned to look at her then swallowed hard at the heated look in her eyes.

"I might suggest the same for you, Mr. Steele," she advised.

"Oh, planning to work me hard today, are you?" he asked, raising a brow, then found himself swallowing hard again when a single finger drew down his front from neck to waist, before the hand turned to caress his suddenly, very attentive manhood.

"Hmmm, not today. But I plan to work you _very hard_ tonight," she told him in a heated voice, her lips whispering against the skin of his chest bared by the opening in his robe. "I intend to put into use _every_ …position… that will be unavailable to us in the weeks to come." Embracing her with one arm, his other hand glided down her back to caress her bottom. He hummed and tilted his head back as her mouth trailed a path below his collarbone.

" _Every_ position you say? Perhaps we'd be wise to get a head start on the evenings…festivities… then, Mrs. Steele," he suggested in a gruff voice, his hands sliding to her waist. She smiled against his collarbone and allowed him to lift her, then wrapped her legs around his waist. She tilted her head down, their kiss speaking of the passion to come. He groaned in disappointment when her legs left his waist and she slipped away from him, their lips parting at the last moment.

"Anticipation, Remington, is everything," she reminded him, before walking away. He watched her, chuckling, as she began to ascend the stairs.

"I'll have you know, it will be nearly impossible to keep my mind on work today," he called after her. She turned and leaned against the railing, looking down at him, an impish grin on her face.

"And that will be different from every other day, how?" she teased, then continued up the stairs her laughter following behind her. He was still chuckling when he entered the kitchen to prepare the morning's meal.

* * *

Remington stayed behind when Laura left for the office. After cleaning up after breakfast, he'd taken tea in hand, fully intending to retire to their room to shower and dress for work, but had instead found himself wandering outside to terrace where he'd found his lovely wife that morning. Wandering over to the outdoor kitchen he ran a finger over the pristine grill cover, while looking out over their backyard. _This is my life now._ He could hardly believe it.

Five years ago, he hadn't even dared to dream of having all that he suddenly found he could call his own. A wife that he loved to distraction, that challenged him every moment of each day, that loved him back with all that she was. A name that he could give to her, to their children one day. He shook his head and laughed, touching his fingers to his lips. _Children. I never imagined they'd be a possibility one day, not as I had lived._ A profession, a reputation, he could take pride in. And this: the home he never believed he'd have. Everything he thought denied by virtue of his birth, was suddenly his. All because of a petite, headstrong, often infuriating, young woman that had stolen his heart like the thief he once was.

Returning to the house, locking the French doors firmly behind him, he walked across the informal dining room and into the living room, his eyes on their portrait above the mantle. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd never forget how he'd felt in that moment. After four years of pursuing her, then nearly letting go of it all, only for them to both fight to get past the injuries done to one another. To finally admit all that they were to each other. It was in that moment on the dance floor that he'd really believed she was his and his alone, as he was hers.

 _Married_ , he laughed quietly. _Happily…contentedly… blissfully wed, to the woman that's been at the center of my dreams for longer than I can recall._

He'd only made it a few steps further towards the stairs when he stopped, a smile lighting his face. It was here, in the foyer, that their first memory in their first home was made.

He'd arranged for Fred to drive them directly to the house, instead of to the apartment as Laura had expected. She'd curled into him for the ride home, and while noticing the scenery outside of the windows didn't quite mesh with their normal route to the Rossmore, she shrugged it off to Fred taking a detour. Closing her eyes, she'd burrowed herself back into his side to continue to doze. She'd been confused when they pulled up to the house in Holmby Hills.

* * *

" _ **What are we doing here?" she asked Remington as he opened the car door then extracted himself out from under her. After gaining his feet, he turned and offered her a hand.**_

" _ **You'll see," he answered enigmatically. Looking her husband over with open curiosity, she took his hand and alighted from the car. Her laughter carried in the air when, three short steps from the front door, he swept her up in his arms.**_

" _ **What are you doing?"**_

" _ **Merely trying to eradicate the regrettable memory of the first time I carried my new bride across the threshold of our home some six months back," he answered with raised brows before touching his lips to hers. Swinging the door open, he carried her through, smiling as she stilled in his arms, taking in the sight before her. When she turned to look at him, the amber eyes he adored were open wide and lit with joy.**_

" _ **But how?" she inquired.**_

" _ **Welcome home, Mrs. Steele." Threading her fingers through his hair, she brushed her lips against his.**_

" _ **But how?" she asked again. "We weren't here for the closing—"**_

" _ **Mildred and our power of attorneys," he filled in as she slipped from his arms to poke her head into the doorway to their left.**_

" _ **We hadn't even begun to pack—"**_

" _ **A fair army of Monroe's men, I'd wager." She crossed the foyer and looked through the door to the right.**_

" _ **Everything's here, exactly how we'd planned. How—"**_

" _ **Monroe and Jocelyn, using the plans you and I'd sketched out." Returning to him, she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, linking them behind his neck. Her dimples flashed, pure joy lighting her eyes.**_

" _ **There are still times you can shock the hell out of me, Mr. Steele."**_

" _ **I believe it's my job to keep you on your toes, Mrs. Steele," he smiled down at her. "Shall we take the full tour?" She shook her head while casting a lusty little smile his way. "Something else on your mind then?" An amused smile lifted his own lips.**_

" _ **Don't you know?" Her lips pressed against his neck and lingered. Grasping her face in his hands, he teased her lips, before bending his knees and sweeping her up in his arms.**_

" _ **As a very well-trained private investigator, I think I can solve the mystery."**_

 _ **Her laughter had followed them all the way up the stairs, before ending on a soft sigh.**_

* * *

Shaking himself loose of the memory, Remington whistled to himself as he ascended the stairs to prepare for the day.


	2. Chapter 2: Soothing Ruffled Feathers

By the time Remington arrived at the office, Laura had worked herself into a fine lather. As he'd entered the Agency doors, smiling and prepared to greet Mildred with his customary 'morning, morning, morning', he'd crossed the threshold just in time to hear the slam of Laura's office door. He raised a brow in Mildred's direction, who held her hands up while shaking her head.

"Don't look at me, Chief. She seemed fine when she came in about an hour ago, then whammo! Going on about you having finalized some cases and you should have told her before she wasted her time doing the same?" He chuckled and taking a couple steps back, leaned against the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"In the dog house then am I?" he asked, looking over his shoulder towards her door with amusement. "It seems our Miss Holt isn't taking well to the limitations that are about to be imposed on her."

"How do you come to that? It seems to me her issue is with you," Mildred commented ruefully. Taking the two paces to Mildred's desk, he knocked on it with his knuckles while leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Because when have I ever landed on her bad side from doing _too much work_ , eh?" With a final chuckle he strode over to Laura's door and knocked. Silence greeted him. With a smile and a shake of his head, he dared to enter the lion's den. When nothing came flying at his head, he closed the door and walked over to her desk to brush his lips against her cheek.

"What's on the schedule today, love?" She sat back in her chair and gave him an icy glare.

"I _had_ planned to put the remainder of the cases we closed to bed, but _after wasting the last_ hour doing just that, I discover _you_ had already done it…" She waved her arm towards the floor where files were scattered about "… and _all of those as well._ " He struggled to keep his face straight.

"Just lending a hand so you'd have to time for all that footwork you enjoy," he attempted to mollify.

" _What footwork,_ Mr. Steele?" she demanded to know while throwing her hands up in the air. "We have exactly two skip traces, which I might add will likely take me less than two hours to complete, one asset trace for a divorce which Mildred is handling and four security installations right now. Even worse, Thanksgiving is only a couple of weeks away, which means 'good will to all men' starts to prevail. So I ask again, _what footwork?"_ He propped a hip up on the corner of her desk.

"Worried about business are you?" She rocketed out of her chair to pace the room.

"Not worried! _Bored_! With two more weeks of boredom waiting for me while I sit at home. Then what? When I'm finally released from my gilded prison by that… that… _Dr. Frankenstein_ … it will be just in time for business to come to a shrieking halt," she growled.

"Or," he suggested, "Given the approaching holidays, as you pointed out, you can look at the time off as an opportunity to plan out how you wish to decorate our new home for the holidays." He knew he'd taken a misstep the minute her eyes narrowed at him. He held up his hands, palms facing her. "Now Laura, I only made the suggestion as you so thoroughly enjoy the holidays while I've not the first idea how to 'deck the halls,' so to speak." That line of reasoning gave her pause.

"It could be fun," she relented, steepling her fingers. "The living and dining room, the entryway, maybe even something out back. At the very least, it would keep me occupied." Her calm contemplation was short-lived and she threw her hands up in the air again. "And how am I supposed to do that? Doctor's order: At home, leg up."

"I'm sure you could prevail on Jocelyn to do any shopping needed. According to Monroe she's declining any assignments until after the new year, but she's already lamenting all the time she'll have on her hands." Her mood lightened considerably.

"It's not a nice, juicy murder," she noted, a corner of her mouth quirking upwards, "but it might help fill at least part of my days in captivity." Remington stood and crossed the room to her, drawing her to him by her hips.

"And I give you my solemn vow, that I'll find a way to… fill… your nights," he remarked suggestively with a waggle of his brows. Her arms slipped around his neck.

"I bet you will," she answered, bemused.

"Therapy, Mrs. Steele, therapy," he corrected, feigning shock at her inference even as a corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. "It's my understanding hot tubs and Jacuzzis have wonderfully restorative powers. Ah, and massages. Mustn't forget the massages. Really, I'm astounded that you'd think I meant anything else."

"Am I to understand then that you're presuming to assume what I meant?" she volleyed. His smiled grew wider.

"Ah, but aren't you assuming what it is that you are accusing me of presuming to assume?" Her eyes blinked hard at that convoluted retort, before she barked a quiet laugh and withdrew from the embrace. "Aren't you expected at the Camerote's Wilshire store in about five minutes to map out the security details?" she asked with a glance at her watch.

"I am," he agreed. "But as I'm already going to be a few minutes late, I might as well do this before leaving." He tugged her back into his arms and kissed her soundly, leaving her slightly breathless as their lips parted. Then, with a smile of satisfaction, he turned and left her office, closing the door behind him. As he passed Mildred's desk on the way out of the Agency, he gave her a wink. "Mrs. Steele's right as rain once more. Let's hope it lasts."

Mildred returned to the asset trace she was conducting a smile lighting her face. In the months since her two kids had stopped dancing around one another and allowed themselves to be caught, while they still bickered here and there, sexual frustration had been replaced with a commitment to taking care of one another that she'd only seen glimpses of in the past.

She whistled a happy little tune the remainder of the morning while behind her office door Laura hummed similarly.

(TBC)


	3. Chapter 3: Imagination

"Thanks for coming, mate," Remington told Monroe, clasping his hand in his. "With Laura's surgery tomorrow, I want to be certain I've someone I trust to oversee the installation while Laura and I are out of pocket."

"What are old friends for? Besides, I never overlook an opportunity to line the coffers a little more fully," Monroe jested. "Imagine, our joint venture being paid to install a system for your Agency while reaping even further profit by overseeing the project. Yes, there truly is something to be said for piracy on this side of the line as opposed to our old ways." Remington laughed.

"I know what you mean. I wonder if it will ever become old hand that I am now earning a respectable living by installing systems to guard jewels that not too long past I might have been hired to acquire by circumventing these very systems," he shared, the thought that one had given him pause many times in the past.

"It's a strange and wonderful world in which we live," Monroe agreed. "And speaking of wonderful, how is Laura faring in the aftermath of recent events."

"The nightmares have thankfully lessened in both quantity and quality. If this morning was any indication, I suspect it will take considerable effort on my part to rein in that astounding temper of hers in the weeks ahead, while convincing her the doctor is not, as she described, 'Dr. Frankenstein,'" Remington provided, wryly. Monroe's laugh bellowed across the store as they entered its doors.

"Did she actually refer to him as such?" Remington nodded, smiling wide.

"She did as an expression of her disdain for the limitations he's placed upon her." He ended the conversation as he stretched out his hand to an average sized, slightly greying man behind a counter displaying a remarkable array of diamonds. "Mr. Camerote, may I introduce you to Monroe Henderson. As we've discussed he's a long -associate specializing in top-of-the-line security systems and will be overseeing tomorrow's portion of the installation while I'm otherwise engaged."

"Mr. Steele speaks quite highly of you, Mr. Griffith," Camerote commented as the two men exchanged handshakes.

"And I, of him, I assure you," Monroe replied.

Introductions made, Remington got down to business. After sketching out the store and where glass, door and window alarms were needed along with a series of heat and motion triggered alarms as well, he presented Monroe with the list of components that would be required. Rolling up his sketches to take home where he and Laura would go over them that evening, they departed to continue on to Camerote's Beverly Drive store. As they left the second store, Remington glanced at his watch and smiled. Plenty of time for what he had in mind for the evening. Providing Monroe his second and final list, Remington added the sketches of the second store to the first and departed for home.

* * *

Remington had the Auburn safely sequestered in the garage by four-thirty, leaving the carport open for Laura to park the Rabbit under. The couple had squabbled, briefly, over Remington's belief that it would be wiser to take the limo in the morning for her surgical appointment, but she'd adamantly refused, insisting the limo was for business and not an auspicious display of their arrival at the hospital.

"It's not happening, Mr. Steele," she'd told him, her tone one of finality. "I can see the headlines now, 'Famed detective Remington Steele escorts wife to hospital pre-surgery.' This is not work. This is home."

Well, how could he argue with that? That she'd so easily, so casually, drawn a line between their public image in terms of work and their need to privacy in terms of the life they were creating as husband and wife? While he still believed she'd be more comfortable in the limo on the way home post-surgery, he'd set the argument aside in favor of a toe-curling kiss, telling her in that one action what her division between work and home had meant to him.

Dropping the folder of his sketches on the foyer table, he quickly jogged up the stairs to switch into a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting oxford before retiring to the kitchen. By the time Laura arrived home at a little after six, the lamb souvlaki was already on skewers, the fresh baked pitas were cooling on a baking rack and the grill was fired up and ready to go. Dropping her briefcase under the foyer table and laying her purse next to the file he'd left there, Laura, like Remington, went upstairs to change before joining him in the kitchen. With a smile, she swiped one of his dress shirts, then slipped into a pair of scant shorts underneath before pulling her hair back into a ponytail. When she arrived in the kitchen she perched on a barstool at the counter, watching as he used a spoon to fold together cucumber, yogurt, olive oil, garlic, and red wine vinegar before her gaze settled on the skewers.

"What are you making?"

"Tzatziki sauce," he nodded towards the bowl, then indication the skewers, "to accompany the lamb souvlaki."

"Greek? You made me Greek?" Her face lit up.

"I believe I promised to do just that, now and again, didn't I? Seemed tonight was an appropriate night to begin." Setting the sauce in the refrigerator to chill, he picked up the platter of skewers and walked toward the French doors leading out to the terrace. When she followed behind, he nodded towards the fireplace on the opposite side of the pool. "You'll find an excellent Camus Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon awaiting us."

Taking the hint, Laura strolled over to where he'd directed, then inhaled a soft breath. The evidence at hand stated clearly that her husband had romance on his mind that evening. A thick, foam mattress covered in a lily-white sheet and topped with numerous pillows had been placed before an already burning fire. To the side, he'd staged a small dining table, covered with a white table cloth and set with the fine china they'd received as a wedding present and Waterford wine glasses. Overhead, the lit, Chinese lanterns provided a soft light to dine by. Lavender – _lavender?_ – rose petals were scattered over the table and the make-shift bed. On one plate and pillow lay a single, perfect, pink tulip. What they were meant to signify she didn't know, but she was sure he'd reveal it in due time. Pouring each of them a glass a wine, she joined him by grill. A smile of appreciation lit his face as he eyed her from head-to-toe.

"Once more, I must applaud your tailor," he complimented as he wiped his hands off on a towel then clutched her hips, drawing her near. Taking the glass of wine she held up to him, he took a sip before stealing a kiss, then returning his attentions to the kabobs.

"This particular tailor seems to receive a great deal of compliments," she noted, laughter coloring her voice. He eyed her, appreciatively, again. Truth be told, ever since he'd first seen dressed such during the Stonewall case more than three years before, he'd developed a great fondness for seeing her garbed in his clothes. It sent a frisson of pure, unadulterated contentment coursing through his body. The act of a woman wearing a man's clothes, he'd learned, conveyed a deep intimacy, even when it was left unspoken. That Laura would often choose to slip into one of his dress shirts or t-shirts on a lazy day at home and, nearly without exception, his pajama top at night, simply warmed him to his toes. It was though she was wrapping herself in his presence while simultaneously claiming him as hers. It was so very… Domesticated.

"With good reason," he finally agreed, tipping his glass to her. She rolled her eyes heavenward before touching her glass to his. She nodded towards the fireplace.

"It seems you have a seduction on your mind this evening," she observed. He raised a brow to her.

"Whatever would give you that idea?"

"Greek food, the bedding, the table, the flowers…" He cast a challenging look her way.

"I seem to recall that the seduction on the evening was promised to be directed by yourself. I've merely set the stage," he corrected, a smile quirking at his lips.

"Should I ask if dessert is part of the staging?"

"Do you even need to? If you wouldn't mind getting the pitas and tzatziki and putting them on the table, the souvlaki will be ready in a matter of minutes." As she departed for the kitchen, she flicked on the sound system as she passed. He nodded with satisfaction as the notes of Chopin's _Concerto No. 1, Op 11_ softly filled the air. There was a time where he'd appreciated the concertos but did not necessarily care for them. Now, he made a note to himself to ask his talented wife to play the piece for him one day.

Over dinner, as had become habit in the last months, talk centered on business. Remington provided a summary of the security measures he'd planned for both of the stores he and Monroe had visited on the day, while Laura brought him up to speed on the two skip traces that she'd completed as predicted. Further, a new case had walked through the door, unannounced: a man who believed his wife was having an affair and wanted proof of his suspicions. Initially, Remington had inwardly cringed at this piece of news. After all, only a little more than a month before when they'd taken on a case similar in nature, his wife has contrived to have him date the spouse under suspicion. The entire ruse had blown up in their faces as he'd withdrawn further and further into himself, feeling as though he was cheating on the wife he was devoted to. It was with no little relief when Laura laid out her plan that he realized she'd no intention of repeating that particular ruse again.

"Unfortunately, it will mean following her for a night or two, maybe three, either getting the proof we need or vindicating her." She left out a puff of frustrated air, and perched her chin on her hand. "As much as I hate it, you'll either have to handle this one on your own, Rem, or pair up with Mildred."

"I'll go it alone. Mildred's still on crutches, may I remind you, and I doubt I'll need backup on this." She nodded her agreement. Standing, he began to clear their now empty plates, she collecting the remnants and following behind him to the kitchen where they cleaned up side-by-side. Despite the state-of-the-art dishwasher ensconced in the kitchen, they cleaned and dried by hand, a bit of tradition from the many nights of dining at his apartment.

"Let the festivities commence, eh, love?" he asked, whispering his lips across the back of her neck as soon as the last dish was put away.

"I thought there was dessert?" she reminded him, even as a shiver traveled down her spine at the contact.

"Would I tease you about such a thing?" he asked, as they walked hand-in-hand back outside. She slanted her eyes sideways to consider him.

"You might," she answered suspiciously, "given I'm not supposed to have anything to eat after eight." That thought made her frown. " _Are you_ teasing me?"

"I have a plan," was all he had to say on the matter. He held her hand as she lowered herself to sit on the mattress, then kneeled before her to remove her boot.

"I seem to recall the plan was in my hands tonight," she pointed out.

"Ahhhhh, but it still will be," he assured her. Sitting down next to her, he lifted a lidded ice bucket and sat it down next to them. Removing the lid, he pulled out a stem of grapes. "When in Greece…" She looked at him, appalled.

"If you think I'm going to sit here and feed you grapes, you've lost your mind!" she told him, crossly. Bemused, he shook his head in the negative as his fingers deftly released the buttons on his shirt that she was wearing. A thrill shot through him when he found her tantalizing, small breasts unencumbered.

"Use that truly magnificent imagination of yours, love," he suggested. Plucking a grape from the vine, he bit it in two, then drew a half along her collarbone, his lips following in its wake, as he gently pressed her backwards to the mattress. The other half of the grape was squeezed over a nipple before he slipped a piece of ice in a hungry mouth and suckled her nipple clean. His hot mouth, the cold ice, and the flicking of his tongue left her squirming and clutching his head to her.

"I see your point," she gasped softly, then with a firm shove, switched positions with him, straddling his lap. "My game, Mr. Steele," she reminded him, easing his t-shirt over his head.

"I'm at your mercy, Mrs. Steele," he vowed, a smile of anticipation lifting his lips.

"Not yet, but you will be," she promised, then leaned down and kissed him.


	4. Chapter 4: Holiday Plans

It was after midnight by the time Remington and Laura adjourned to the master suite to shower and prepare for bed. He was both surprised and pleased after their exhausting and thoroughly heart pounding love making on the evening when, instead of slipping between the sheets as expected, she waited until he stretched out, leaning back against the headboard, for what had become their nightly ritual. Laying her head on his lap, she took his hand in hers and began to trace his palm with a single fingertip. His fingers toyed with her damp, curling hair.

"Tell me about the flowers," she requested.

"Ah," he tugged at an ear, "Lavender roses signify love at first sight, a nod to the day I knew there was meant to be something truly special between us."

"And the tulips?" His slight shift underneath of her let her know he wouldn't be divulging that little tidbit on the evening.

"Perhaps uncovering that bit of information will help fill your time in upcoming days, eh?" With a quiet snort of laughter, she rolled her eyes and nodded her head to herself, acknowledging she was dead on that he'd choose to dodge a second question. "Are you worried about tomorrow, love?" he inquired.

"No, not about me, at least," she said with a shake of her head. She wasn't, in fact, worried about herself, but she'd felt the quiet desperation in his touch, in the way he'd kissed her from time-to-time as they'd made love. "What's going on in that head of yours?" The fingers in her hair paused for a long second before resuming motion. The temptation to fall into old habits, to hide, to cover his worries with wit was strong, but in the end, he sighed heavily.

"I'm discovering I take exception to anyone cutting into that lovely leg of yours," he admitted. She tipped her head back to look up at him then with a shake of her head, returned her attention to his hand.

"Well, I can't say I'm overly thrilled about the idea myself, but I think there's more to it than that." He frowned.

"It's simply yet another thing that's out of our control. It seems since the INS's arrival in our lives, there have been far too many things which have been precisely that: Keyes, Shannon… Roselli. And now, here we are placing your well-being into the hands of someone based on reputation alone, the outcome completely out of our hands." The frustration in his voice was clear.

"Have we ever truly had control?" she asked, almost philosophically. "Veckmer, DesCoines, Reuben, Lydon, Dancer, Wally. We had no control over them coming after us, turning our lives upside down. But in the end, we came out on top, like we always do." She pressed her lips against his palm and looked up at him. "We found the best surgeon in LA. Mildred checked him out thoroughly. We trust him to do the best job he can and then the rest is up to me." She returned her attention to his hand when he hummed his acceptance of what she had to say.

"Did you call your mother today?" he inquired, recalling their conversation of three days past when she'd promised to find out what holiday plans Abigail had been formulating.

"I called Frances," she answered.

"Lau-ra," he drawled.

"I know, I know," she answered, somewhat defensively. "What do you want me to say? That I don't want to listen to another round of how inconsiderate I was not to call the minute I regained consciousness in the hospital or simply how I had the bad manners to be kidnapped in the first place?" She puffed out a frustrated breath. "Thanksgiving Day here, Christmas Eve at Frances and Donald's followed by midnight mass, then Christmas Dinner here. Did you confirm with Monroe and Jocelyn?"

"I did. And yourself with Bernice and Jason?" She nodded her confirmation. Jason's parents had asked them to come back to LA for the holidays. This time, Bernice was only too eager to accept the invitation as she wanted to see for herself that Laura was safe and well, not to mention get a look at the 'dream house' Laura and Remington had purchased. "Jason's family does a Christmas Day brunch, so they'll be able to make dinner. Veronica and Maxie?"

"Confirmed as well, both Thanksgiving and Christmas." He fingered her hair back from her face. "Thank you for insisting that we include them."

"They're important to you. Besides, they helped us find this house." She leaned back to flash a pair of dimples at him. "Airline tickets?"

"Mildred confirmed today. We fly out Christmas night, arrive in Cannes on the twenty-sixth. Depart for Paris on the thirtieth. Reservations at Hôtel Plaza Athénée, also confirmed. We return home on the morning of the second." He didn't mention that he'd made sure Mildred reserved them the art deco Eiffel suite, which provided a full view of the Eiffel tower. No, that little detail was to be a surprise.

"I can't believe Monroe's going to propose to Jocelyn in Paris."

"Marriage appears to be contagious," he noted wryly. "In fact, if he has his way about it, he'll be a married man upon his return," Remington confided in her. That had Laura sitting up and flashing a pair of dimples.

"He does?"

"Mmmm," he hummed. "He'd like us to stand as witnesses if she agrees."

"A Parisian wedding," she mused, lifting her brows at her husband. "Pretty romantic, Mr. Steele." A pair of hands grabbed her waist, pulling her down to her back on the bed. He leaned over her, a brow raised.

"Are you implying our own wedding was less so?" he challenged.

"It certainly beats a fake wedding on a fishing trawler, hands down," she smirked. Then, seeing the picture of them on their wedding day over her husband's shoulder, she sobered. Sliding her hands under his arms to clasp his shoulders, she looked him boldly in the eyes. "Greece was more than I ever dreamed of. I'll never forget a moment of it."

"Nor will I," he agreed, leaning down to press his lips to her. Their eyes met, and the kiss deepened. Her fingers trailed down his back from neck-to-bottom. Breaking off the kiss, his eyes searched her face, finding quiet desire in her eyes. "A double feature then?" She buried her fingers in his hair, drawing him down to her.

"Mmm hmmm," she hummed. "But this time, you write the script," she whispered against his lips. With a quiet laugh, his lips covered hers and he gathered her close.


	5. Chapter 5: Pygmalion

Remington paced the surgical waiting room, glancing at his watch for the dozenth time in the last five minutes. Laura's surgery had been scheduled for eight, then postponed until nine due to complications with the patient before her. _That_ information had done nothing to soothe his nerves, and the idea of the surgery was even more anxiety provoking after it had arrived. To Laura's credit, she'd tried to calm him, but she'd been secretly relieved when the nursing staff had sent her husband off packing to the waiting room while they finished up the final steps of pre-op. He hadn't missed the quick look of relief that has passed across her face and, frankly, was impressed that she hadn't tossed him out on his ear before that. Rationally, he knew it should have been him providing the pre-op comfort. Rationally. But, unfortunately, heart and body hand banded together to proclaim, _bugger that, this is your wife._

Taking another cursory glance at his watch, rationality veered left, going the way of heart and body as he recalled the possible complications the doctor had ticked off point-by-point. The damage to the Achilles might be significantly worse than shown by the MRI rendering it unrepairable. Not being able to run for enjoyment, to pursue a suspect on foot, would be a blow to her she wouldn't easily recover from. The Achille's could be repaired but the damage was significant enough it would require a graft, which would mean cutting open a second area of his wife's body in order to retrieve tissue to aid in the repair. Excessive bleeding. An adverse reaction to the anesthesia that could send her into shock…

"Mr. Steele?" Remington whirled around while swiping a hard hand through his hair.

"Yes?" he answered, more sharply than he intended. With a wave of her hand, the nurse indicated he should follow.

"The surgery went as expected," she filled him in, before he could ask. "Dr. Davontanelli will be in as soon as your wife has fully emerged from the anesthesia to go over the details with the both of you. In the meantime, Mrs. Steele is having a bit of trouble shaking the anesthesia."

"What do you mean by trouble?" he demanded to know.

"It's not uncommon for patients to complain of feeling extremely cold, to shiver even." They entered the post-operative ward and turned down an aisle filled with curtained cubicles. "In some patients we see a change of blood pressure towards the lower side. It's not out of the ordinary for patients to even become very emotional as they emerge from sedation," she informed him. "Mrs. Steele's reaction to the sedation has been on the extreme side of the spectrum."

He was about to request clarification when he heard the sound he hadn't heard in weeks now, a sound he'd hoped never to hear again: the sound of Laura whimpering in fear. "Bloody hell," he cursed vehemently, striding in long steps down the aisle before slipping behind a curtain from where her voice was emanating. He stepped to her bedside and grasped her hand.

"Mr. Steele—" the nurse began disapprovingly, only to be cut dead by an icy glare.

"Leave us," he told her in a glacial voice that brooked no argument. With a frown the nurse spun on her heel, the curtain closing behind her as Remington leaned over Laura and lay his lips near her ear.

"Tá sé dom, mo ghrá álainn. Oscail do shúile dom anois." He spoke the words softly, and watched as her entire body shuddered. Sitting on the bed next to her, he bussed her on the forehead and tried again. "Oscail do shúile, mo ghrá. Tá sé am chun teacht ar ais chugam." This time, on a sob, she bolted upright, to be enfolded in his arms. "Shhhhh. It's okay, love. You're safe. In Los Angeles." He tangled a hand in her hair and pressed her closer. "Gach rud ag dul a bheith ceart go leor, mo ghrá. Tá tú sábháilte. Tá tú anseo liom." Her hands clenched at his shoulders as another, final shudder ran through her.

"I was back in the car, you were gone," she told him shakily, her hands fisting against his shoulder. He thought back to a similar conversation on the sailboat in Greece when it was he struggling with all that had happened.

"But you aren't, I'm not. We're both here." She nodded her head against his shoulder.

"It seemed so real," she said, calming now. "I didn't want to wake up for fear that it was." He hummed, stroking his hand along the back of her head.

"The anesthesia. I don't know why it didn't occur to us you might have such a reaction." She shifted slightly to press her face in his neck inhaling deeply. He leaned his head to press his cheek against her hair, continuing to stroke it.

"My ankle?"

"According to the nurse, all went as planned. She said we should expect to hear from the doctor once you were fully awake." She eased out of his embrace then reached for her leg, touching it.

"I can't feel my leg below the knee."

"The nerve block, remember?" She nodded then lay back, running her fingers through her hair.

"How long until we can get out of here?" Remington shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"I've no idea. I'm sure the doctor will let us –" His words broke off as the curtain behind him slid open, and the man himself entered the cubicle.

"An hour, two at the most. I'd like to see you drink and eat something small, keep it down. If all goes well, we'll get you on your way home," Dr. Davontanelli provided. "Surgery went as expected, no grafts needed. Your foot has been splinted, as discussed. I'll see you in the office on Friday, and if all looks good, we should have you out of that brace and in physical therapy two weeks from today. In the meantime, we'll give you another injection of peripheral nerve block that should see you through what would be the worst of the pain then we'll send you home with a prescription of Vicodin. Any questions?"

"Running?" A wealth of concern was contained within the single word.

"There should be no issue, whatsoever, after you complete P.T. Go ahead and reserve a spot for yourself in the LA Marathon next year," he assured, giving her a wink. When Laura had nothing further to ask, Remington stood and offered the doctor his hand.

"Thank you," he said, clasping the man's hand.

"You're welcome. Now, Mrs. Steele, remember what I said: No work until that splint comes off. I want you to stay off that foot." She shot him a baleful look.

"I understand," she acknowledged, resignedly. Seeing her husband's lips twitch with amusement, he became the recipient of an annoyed glare as the doctor discretely slipped out of the cubicle and drew the curtain closed behind him.

"You're enjoying this far too much, Mr. Steele," she groused.

"Perhaps. But it's not often I see man or woman who can command your acquiescence so easily. I may have to ask how he does it," he teased, as he perched a hip on her bed.

"Four years of college, four years of medical school, eight years of internship and residency. Until then, I wouldn't hold your breath, buster."

He chuckled and pressed a kiss against her lips.

* * *

Remington entered the bedroom on silent feet. Setting the bed tray on the floor, he eased down to sit next to Laura. It hadn't been an easy afternoon on her. After taking a dose of Vicodin she'd alternated between nausea and drowsiness to fear-landscaped dreams. When the time arrived for her next dose, she'd shoved the pill away, vowing to cope with whatever discomfort simple Tylenol didn't relieve. Still held tight in the Vicodin induced haze, she'd slipped back into sleep within a couple of scant minutes of taking the requested Tylenol.

He brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek, grinning at the smile that lifted her lips as she stirred. She blinked her eyes open and looked at him.

"Feeling any better?" he greeted. Her brow furrowed and she concentrated on her body, lifting her brows when there were no tell-tale signs of nausea when she moved the slightest bit. Slowly, she pushed herself up to lean her back against the headboard.

"I do actually."

"And your ankle?"

"Sore, but not intolerable." Bending down, he picked up the tray off the floor.

"Feel up to trying a bite of something light to eat?" He placed the tray over her lap. She raised her brows at him.

"Noodle soup?"

"Mmmmm," he hummed. "I was reminded while preparing it that a certain young woman once promised to have me over one night for the same, yet years later that promise remains unfulfilled."

* * *

 _ **"And you're… still determined to live in the warehouse?"**_

 _ **"Well, just think of the possibilities, Xenos."**_

 _ **"Yes, but… is it safe?"**_

 _ **"I've left Nero there to stand guard-"**_

 _ **"Even so, perhaps I should take you home-"**_

 _ **"Oh, thanks, but, I need the time to myself. But… soon I'll have you over for… noodle soup?"**_

 _ **"Oh. My favorite. My favorite."**_

* * *

"You know what they say about promises." She lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, watching as he considered the question.

"I've no idea, Mrs. Steele."

"'A promise made is a debt unpaid,'" she provided, reciting the words of Robert W. Service. "And I _always_ pay my debts, Mr. Steele."

"Ah, so there is still hope yet, then, is there?"

"One should always entertain great hopes." A smile lit her face.

"A variation of Robert Frost's 'I always entertain great hopes,'" he noted. "Waxing poetic this evening, love?"

"And here I thought you didn't particularly care for poetry." She shrugged carelessly. "Maybe a bit."

"Any particular reason why?" She pursed her lips and gave the question some thought before returning her attention to her soup.

"'At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by the spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.'" She flashed a pair of dimples at him and raised her brows in challenge.

"Schweitzer. Now the evening takes a philosophical bend." Laura set down her spoon and looked at him with surprise.

"I hadn't realized you were so well-versed in philosophy."

"I believe I've shared with you before that I had excellent tutors as Daniel was bound and determined I could hold an intelligent conversation on nearly any topic that might arise when amongst civilized company," he reminded her.

"You have. I suppose I'm just a bit caught off guard by the breadth of that tutelage. Is philosophy a frequent topic of conversation among the European upper crust?"

"Today was the first time I've had cause to use it during conversation, but it was a subject I enjoyed so I didn't mind overly much the study of it."

"Comportment, speech, language, art, art history, poetry, philosophy… Should I ask how much time was devoted to the maths and sciences?"

"I've a fair hand at geometry, particularly enjoyed the theorems. Physics as well." Soup finished, he lifted the tray from her lap. "Now, returning to the matter at hand. What has you pondering poetry and philosophy this evening?"

"Gratitude. Maybe some relief," she said thoughtfully. "I'll still be able to run. Even more so, this," she swept a hand towards her leg, "is the last vestige of Roselli's invasion of our lives. I'm here," she reached to cup his cheek, "You're here. We've come out on top yet again." Remington clasped the hand against his cheek and drew it to him, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

"That we have." He drew her hair back over her shoulder. "Feel up to a movie this evening?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"I picked up a couple of new titles for the library this week. _Gilda_? Or perhaps _My Fair Lady_?" She gave the matter some thought.

"Something light, if you don't mind."

"Hepburn it is then. Give me just a few minutes to get everything ready."

Remington left the room with bed tray in hand, providing Laura and opportunity to attend to personal matters, crutching her way first to the bathroom, then their closet. By the time he returned, dishes washed and ice bag in hand, she was comfortably ensconced on the right side of the bed wearing one of his pajama shirts. Grabbing a pillow off the couch, he propped her leg up then carefully slid the ice bag between ankle and pillow. After moving the TV and VCR into position to be seen from the bed, he was about to climb in next to her when she shook her head at him.

"Why don't you go take your shower first?" she suggested. Bending down, he touched his lips to hers then retired to the bathroom.

Laura took a deep breath and released it slowly. She needed a little time to reflect on the morning. Remington had been correct when he'd said they'd failed to anticipate the possible association between the anesthesia and the drugs Roselli had used on her during the days he'd had her in his captivity. That the Vicodin had caused a similar reaction frightened her. The nightmares had lessened in both their frequency and intensity since they'd returned home. She could only hope that by eliminating the drugs from her system, she'd eliminate the dreams as well.

What bothered her most was that they were there waiting to rise like a phoenix from the ashes in the first place. She needed to know why. Why had Roselli targeted them in the first place? Gut told her it went far beyond Roselli needing Remington to pass some documents for him. If that were the case, he could have come directly to them. There would have been no need to involve Keyes or the INS. No need for blackmail. No need to frame Remington for murder. No need to send her husband into a hoped for ambush. The purported reason that he barged into their lives simply didn't track.

She needed to know. Glancing at bathroom where the shower was still running, she shook her head. There wasn't a single doubt in her mind that Remington would be adamantly opposed to them revisiting _anything_ to do with Roselli. He was a man that lived in the present with purpose, that believed in burying the past. She, on the other hand, had always needed to understand the past, at least to put in into perspective

She let out a frustrated puff of air. Remington would be quick to point out that it was her propensity towards living in the past that had kept them frozen in time and place, unable to move forward, unwilling to turn back. Now, she wanted to take a step back into the past that had threatened everything that mattered most to them.

Shaking her head at herself and exhaling sharply again, she made a vow to herself that she'd not bring it up until after the holidays. This was Remington's first holiday season, ever, where he'd spend it in the bosom of family. As scrooge-like as he could become during the holidays, she could sense an underlying current of eager anticipation in him this year. She wouldn't risk taking that from him. She could, however, use her enforced solitude to review everything they knew about Roselli and be prepared with a starting point when she finally broached the subject. Those files were sitting in her briefcase downstairs, at this very moment.

She nodded to herself, mind made up. _And just in the nick of time_ , she thought to herself as Remington walked out of the bathroom, hair damp and wearing the matching pajama bottoms to the shirt she wore. Turning on the television and VCR, he started the movie then slipped in behind her on the bed, both adjusting until her back was pillowed against his chest. Automatically her arms covered the arms encircling her.

"This movie will always remind me of Roxy," Remington remarked ten minutes in. Laura hummed her agreement.

"This will be the first time in four years that we've missed Tracy's New Year's Eve party." This time it was he that hummed.

"As enjoyable as those shindigs are, it can hardly hold up to Paris on New Year's Eve." She nodded.

"I agree," she replied, some wistfulness tinging the words. Behind her, he raised a single brow.

"Would you prefer that we return early to attend the Crockett affair?" he questioned.

"Not at all," she assured him. "It was simply one of the few traditions you and I have ever had. Personal relationship or not, we put it all aside to attend each year."

"Maybe the tradition is not which celebration we attended but that we spent each New Year's together then, eh?" She nodded slowly.

"I suppose you're right. We _are_ attending the Nutcracker this year, correct?" He chuckled lightly behind her.

"The tickets have already been purchased and are in my desk at the office. Now _there's_ a tradition, Mrs. Steele. This will be the fifth year we've attended together and I don't see that changing in the future. There's nothing I enjoy quite so much as you, attention held rapt by the dance before you. I particularly look forward to this year's after show."

"After show? We've never attended an after show," she corrected.

"Mmmmm. The ballet warms your blood and you're all too eager to find yourself in my arms after."

"Is that so?" she teased, reaching behind her to lay her hand against his cheek.

"I'm sure Fred would only be too happy to verify how many times he's needed to discretely clear his throat to remind us we'd arrived at the loft," he teased further, sounding far too smug for her tastes. Turning in his arms, she used a single finger to trace a path from neck-to-waistband, drying up his laughter and making him swallow… hard. She gave him a sly little smirk. "Lau-ra," he drawled, warningly. She didn't choose to heed his admonition, instead walking her fingers back upwards.

"Maybe this year we should take the Auburn…" she suggested in a sultry little voice, that left him shifting against her as memories of a certain evening in the Auburn traipsed across his memory. He caught her hand in his before it could descend again.

"You're not playing fair, Mrs. Steele." A dimple flashed as a corner of her mouth lifted impishly. She locked her mouth over the place beneath his ear that drove him made, alternately suckling lightly and lathing the skin with tongue. She only retreated when he moaned aloud.

"I never do, Mr. Steele," she answered, smugly. "Now, about the Aub—" Her laughter trickled across the room, when he grabbed her by the waist, settling her firmly, face forward, between his legs again.

"The movie… _watch_ … the movie," he directed, voice strained, breath short.

After wiggling her bottom, feigning settling in while drawing a sharp inhale from him – just for good measure, of course – she allowed herself to get caught up in the Pygmalion tale. Shortly her mind began to wander. Her hand sought then found his, wrapping around it and giving it a squeeze. Still caught up in the movie he grunted in a way that could passably be considered an inquiry in to what she wished to garner his attention for.

"It occurs to me that this movie could be a reflection of your own life in some ways, am I wrong?" _That_ caught his attention. She felt him shrug behind her.

"In some ways, to be sure," he acknowledged.

"And in others?" He lifted a hand to swipe at his mouth.

"I didn't seek out change, as Eliza does. It sought me out in the form of Daniel. I went along, willingly some of the time, resentfully often times, but was at least wise enough to recognize that things Daniel could teach me would help not only to get me off the streets, but keep me off of them." He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "I was beyond hostile… furious would have been a more apt word. Living each day as I was, fighting simply to survive… for no other reason than I'd been born on the wrong side of the bed sheets. And terrified. Not that I would have admitted it to anyone at the time. I trusted no one, having learned well that there was no kindness, only deeds for which repayment would one day be demanded." He paused, to rub at his mouth again. 'There were times I wondered why he put up with me at all… how long it would be until he sent me back to those streets."

"But he didn't…"

"No, he never did. And even when I lit out on my own, if I found myself in dire straits, it would only take word reaching him and he'd arrange for me to join him wherever he'd last landed."

"It's still hard for me to accept…" She paused as the memory of her first conversation ever with Daniel replayed in her mind.

* * *

 _ **"Well, let's see. When I found him, he was an uneducated, unsophisticated … unwanted young man. Filled with hostility and violence. I know it's difficult to believe we're talking about the same person, but, there he was, on the streets of London, hustling for a quid."**_

 _ **"So you took him under your wing."**_

 _ **"Perhaps as the son I never had."**_

 _ **"And like any good father, you taught him how to be a consummate con man. A charming cheat-"**_

* * *

"What is?" he prodded. She blinked her eyes hard, shaking off the memory.

"That by turning you into a conman and thief, he saved you,' she mused.

"It's the life he knew. I owe him a debt I'd never be able to repay, were he still here," he noted quietly. "Had it not been for that training, I'd never have found myself in pursuit of the Lavulite, would never have met you. Frankly, the odds are, I would have been found dead on the streets in not too much time." She laced the fingers of a hand with his.

"It would seem the debt is mine to repay then, because I can't even conceive of a world without you in it," she pondered aloud. Remington stiffened behind her. "What? What is it?" He pressed a kiss on the top of her head.

"I wonder if you'll understand what it does to me when you say things such as that," he answered in a solemn voice.

She squeezed his hand while yawning deeply. Taking the hint, he extracted himself from behind her. While Laura settled herself on her side, Remington disposed of the ice bag in the bathroom, propping up her leg with a pillow on his return. Slipping back into bed beside her, he settled a leg between hers to provide support to the injured limb, then wrapped an arm around her. In short order, she was lost to her dreams, while he considered what she'd said. Propping himself up on his arm, he leaned down and bussed her cheek, before laying back down and spooning himself more firmly behind her.

"Ba mhaith liom é a dhéanamh ar fad arís, míle uair, dá bhfágfadh sé a aimsiú duit," he whispered against the top of her head. He fell asleep wondering, not for the first time, how it was that kismet had seen it fit to deliver him to her doorstep.

(TBC)


	6. Chapter 6: Parole Granted

**_This chapter contains adult content. If you are under the age of 18 or are uncomfortable with such subject matter, please skip to chapter 7._**

* * *

To her credit, Laura made it a full forty-eight hours before boredom made her take leave of her senses. She knew that she'd hit the point of no return, boredom wise, when she voluntarily picked up the phone to call her mother and chat. And _that_ conversation had gone the way of all their conversations: criticism heaped with chastisement topped with more criticism.

"Had you had the courtesy to inform your family of your surgery, we would have helped out." This earned a roll of Laura's eyes, as that was _precisely_ why she hadn't informed Abigail or Frances of the date.

"Now don't be too demanding with Remington, Laura. You don't want to chase him off like you did that nice Jeffries boy." At that comment, she'd pulled the phone away from her face and looked at it as though an alien were on the other line speaking with her.

"He's a wonderful catch, Laura. Frankly, he's far better than I thought you'd do." That comment had resulted in the end of the conversation.

She'd slammed down the phone a little harder than necessary, although that expenditure of temper had provided a little bit of relief of the tension that invariably accompanied conversations with her mother. She sighed deeply. _At least she promised to Fed Ex what I needed today, so it will be here Saturday. That's something._

With a growl of frustration, both from lack of productivity and the aggravation wrought by speaking with her mother, Laura grabbed her crutches and made her way to the foyer. There, she grabbed her briefcase before returning to the living room. Propping up her leg on a pillow, she pulled a legal pad, pen and the file on Roselli out of the briefcase. After mulling it over, she set the file aside. She wanted to document every statement Roselli had made that seemed it might hold the slightest bit of importance while it was still semi-fresh in her mind. Those memories, of course, were complicated by the hallucinations – some of which still seemed very real in her mind.

Two hours later, a half dozen pages filled with notes, with a pounding headache and having spent that time reliving her days of captivity at Roselli's hands, her mood had darkened even further. Thus, when her hapless husband, just returning from work, entered the house whistling a happy little tune, he was greeted by a dark glare which saw the whistling die.

Quickly assessing the situation, Remington sighed to himself. It wasn't as though he wasn't as though he wasn't expecting her temper to flare up a time or twenty during the two weeks of doctor-imposed solitude, but the timing couldn't have been worse. It had not only been a long day with checking on the installation of the systems in the Camerote stores, but he'd met with several clients looking for security and skip trace services. To top it all off, he wouldn't have time to soothe her ruffled feathers in the manner required as the moment dinner was over he would have to head back out to tail the alleged cheating spouse of one of their clients.

All he really wanted to do was toss together a nice dinner for he and Laura then spend a nice, quiet evening at home. Instead it appeared he would need to charm her out of her temper before he beat a hasty retreat out the front door. Forcing a smile on his face, he crossed the room and leaned down to brush his lips over her cheek before perching on the side of the couch next to her hip.

"How's the ankle fairing today, love?" he asked, sweeping her loose hair back over her shoulder. Slipping pad, pen and folder back into her briefcase, she leaned back with a huff, crossing her arms.

"Well enough that I could be in the office, tending to business, instead of sitting around here," she bit out.

"Now, Laura—"

"Don't 'now Laura' me. You sound just like my mother!" She massaged her temples with her fingertips. "Who I called… _voluntarily_ … today because I was so bored."

 _Ahhhhh,_ he thought to himself, _that certainly explains her pique._ He patted her on the hip. "Scoot yourself down and let me take care of that for you." He waited until she moved down a little then propped herself up on her elbows until he could sit. Once he was situated, she settled her head on his lap, closing her eyes as his fingers began their magical work. "How is Abigail?" Opening her eyes, she glowered up at him.

"As critical and judgmental as ever." She released an agitated huff. "I don't think I'll ever be able to do anything right in her eyes," she lamented.

"Odd. I thought things had gotten a bit better between the two of you since we've wed," he commented, only to receive a dark scowl before she closed her eyes again.

"Oh yes. You are 'quite the catch' and 'far better than she thought I'd do' and I should make certain not to be overly burdensome to you during my recovery or you might go the way of that 'nice Jeffries boy,'" she ground out. "Just peachy," she muttered irritably under her breath.

Remington silently and sarcastically sent Abigail his thanks. _Tossed me into the lion's den, then did you?_ He'd become quite accustomed to mollifying Laura after calls with her family members, but had yet to get used to his petite wife turning her temper on him because of Abigail's perpetual warnings not to chase him off. He was, after all, a successful businessman and a member of royalty, at least in Abigail's eyes. It was on days such as these that he fervently wished he could make the woman understand that it was her daughter to whom all the praise was owed, for turning his life around and by virtue of that, giving him this life he cherished. The fact that she'd termed that bloody wanker, Jeffries, a 'nice boy,' when said 'nice boy' had done untold damage to her daughter? It made his blood simmer.

"You and I both know who the true catch was, now don't we? Eh?" He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Perhaps it's time we told your family the truth of it all…" Laura's eyes flew open at that.

"No! It's not an option," she told him vehemently. "Mother would tell _everyone_ and if word got out to the wrong people? I imagine the statute of limitations hasn't run out on some of your exploits. I won't have you put at risk. So _forget about it_." He stopped the massage to hold up his hands in surrender. He patted her on the hip.

"Sit up, love. Let me see that lovely neck and shoulders." He waited while she sat up and adjusted her ankle on the pillow. His fingers settled on her neck, to work loose the tension there. "I take it you've never shared with Abigail the truth of your time with Jeffries?" She let loose an agitated sigh and shook her head.

"There's no point. No matter what she'd only see my own failings." She shook her head again. "Only you know the whole of it, Murphy most. I'd like to leave it that way. It's not exactly a part of my life I take great pride in." Behind her, he frowned before pressing his lips to her collarbone.

"The shame is not yours to own, it's Jeffries for not understanding what a remarkable woman you are," he admonished softly. She shrugged, off-handedly.

"Maybe, maybe not." His frown only deepened at that.

"Would you care to explain what's meant by that?" She shook her head subtly.

"I think we've veered off topic. Weren't we discussing my involuntary confinement?" Lifting a hand, he tugged at an ear as he grimaced.

"Uh, yes, I believe that's where this conversation began. Laura, it's only or a few more day—"

"This whole thing is _ridiculous_ , Remington! I can sit at my desk with my foot propped up as easily as I can here!"

"And you can do that same work here at home," he reminded her. She threw up her hands and pulled away from him. Turning herself around on the couch to face him, she plopped back down none to gracefully.

"That's _not the point_! I'm a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I'm being treated like a child, grounded to her room when no offense has even been committed!" she retorted, her frustration mounting again.

"Where, precisely, are you heading with this?"

"I want to go to the office—"

"Laura, the doctor specifically forbade—"

"Damn it, Remington! I _don't care_ what the doctor forbade. Maybe it bears repeating: I can stay off my foot at the office as well as I can at home. At least there I won't be pulling out my hair from boredom!" He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to control his annoyance.

"I thought we'd already addressed the issue of boredom. If I recall, I'd bring home work from the office for you – which I've done. You'd prepare the house for the holidays with Jocelyn's assistance—" She tossed up her hands.

"I can do the former at the office and I'd prefer to do the latter _with my husband._ Is that too much to ask?" she demanded to know.

"Let's have it, then. What are you proposing?" Two days in and he was already growing weary of the nightly argument. She reached for his hand and tugged him down to the couch, recognizing victory was within reach.

"I go to the office with you tomorrow, two days next week," she offered, toying with his tie. "I'll make use of the couch in your office. Paperwork, new client interviews with you." He rubbed at the back of his neck.

"You'll not leave the office—" he began.

"I'll do no more than necessary," she promised. Too readily in his opinion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "And if we stop on the way in and pick up magazines, this weekend you and I can sit down and decide, _together_ , what most appeals to _us_ for the house. I'll have Jocelyn do the shopping and next week the house will be completely ready for our Thanksgiving guests." Instincts told him it was a bad idea, but the hand caressing his chest was proving a mighty distraction at the moment.

"I want your word," he relented, already regretting the decision.

"I give you my word. No more than necessary," she agreed, flashing a pair of dimples his way. He studied her face at length, trying to see what it was that seemed not quite right, but seeing nothing, nodded his head in agreement. Her lips locked on that area beneath his ear, and she suckled gently. "I suddenly find myself in a _very_ good mood, Mr. Steele," she told him in a sultry whisper, then frowned when he shook his head in the negative.

"Sorry, love. I have a cheating spouse to follow this evening and you know our motto…" He found at least some satisfaction in her look of supreme disappointment at this turn of events. Standing, he leaned down over her. "It seems you've just learned how it felt any number of times over the years when you reminded me of just that during times like this." Leaning down he brushed his lips over hers, trying not to gloat overly too much.

"You're enjoying this," she accused, reaching for her crutches and pulling herself up.

"Perhaps a bit," he agreed, the smile in his voice easily heard as she followed him towards the kitchen. "It's not often I've had the opportunity to turn you down in favor of work over the years. In fact, I can only recall twice, if memory serves." He flashed her a smile as he pulled a glass pan of lasagna from the refrigerator and set it into the microwave to heat up. "By my count, Mrs. Steele, I am several hundred such instances in arrears." Her musical laughter trickled across the room.

"I see. Should I point out that you now have two counterproductive counts going?" Grasping her around the waist, he plopped her on the counter before turning to the refrigerator again.

"By all means, feel free to point." He set lettuce, a tomato, cucumber, and vinaigrette on the counter, before extracting turkey slices, artichoke hearts, blue cheese, feta and a fresh pita from the refrigerator as well.

"According to your original count, we still have at least three years to make up, for all the times I turned you down." This statement earned her a raised brow. "Alright more than three years." That earned her a nod as he tore a few leaves of lettuce off the head and began to chop it.

"I don't see the conflict so far," he commented, as he scraped the lettuce into a bowl and reached for the tomato.

"If you still need to turn me down several hundred times for us to be even on that count, however will you make up all that time?" she smirked. His knife paused mid-slice, before he flashed her a smile, and setting aside the tomato slices, began to dice the remainder.

"I don't believe I am required to decline, but that it seems you are incumbent to ask," he informed her, quite pleased with himself.

"It seems to me, Mr. Steele," she said in a lusty little voice, as she leaned over to skim her fingernails from his throat to waist, "that I regularly do the asking these days." Catching her hand in his, he lifted it to his mouth, nibbling on her wrist until she flushed.

"That you do, Mrs. Steele. And as flattering as I find it, I must now turn down your suggestion for a second time on the evening." He laughed at her grunt of displeasure, then bussing her on the cheek, returned his attention to the cutting board, swiping the diced tomatoes into the bowl with the lettuce. It was only then she took note of the single bowl.

"Aren't you eating?" He shook his head.

"I won't have time now, I'm afraid. I'll toss together a turkey and artichoke pita to take with me." He brushed the diced cucumber on top of the lettuce and tomato, sprinkled the salad with feta, then tossed it lightly with the vinaigrette. "Would you prefer to spend the evening upstairs or down?" The reminder of her limitations darkened her mood slightly.

"Up, I suppose," she sighed.

Lifting her from the counter with ease, he waited until she had crutches in hand then carried her towards the staircase. "I seem to recall when this was an occasion for romance," he muttered, good naturedly.

"Simply trying to keep you in shape, Mr. Steele," she teased. He gave her a feigned glower.

"Are you implying that I was in danger of not being so?"

"Well," she drawled, "I think you not only gained back the weight you lost before we arrived in Greece, but seem to have added a few spare pounds as well," she told him, giving his waist a little pinch once he settled her on the bed.

"You've a cruel streak in you, Mrs. Steele," he bemoaned, as he slipped his tie loose then began unbuttoning his shirt. "I'll have you know, I weigh exactly what I have my entire adulthood." The fact was, she was well-aware he'd not gained any excess weight. Unlike herself, he seemed able to eat whatever he pleased, never gaining an ounce, even sans regular exercise. She, on the other hand, had to take care, utilizing her dance and running to combat his caloric-but-too-good-to-pass-up meals. Her mind sputtered then stalled all together when he slipped out of his pants.

There was something to be said about being married to the most beautiful man she'd ever known. Still, as stunning as his physique was, she wouldn't have fallen for him as she had if he'd not had the heart he did. It was the entire package that made her mouth water: body, mind and soul combined. When he caught her watching him, she flushed deeply. Married or not, it still caught her a bit off-guard to be found openly lusting after him. She cast her eyes downwards and fidgeted with her wedding band.

"See something you like, excess weight and all?" he teased. It was challenge and she knew it. Rising to the occasion, she looked up, her bold gaze raking over him slowly from head-to-toe. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, upping the ante.

"Why don't you come here and I'll show you?" she challenged in return, adding a sultry layer to her voice. He swallowed hard, recognizing if he took so much as a step in her direction, he wouldn't be leaving the house anytime soon, if at all.

"Our motto, Miss Holt… remember?" he managed to force past his lips before he ducked into the walk-in closet to finish changing.

"That's the third time you've turned me down tonight, Mr. Steele," she called after him. "I seem to recall telling you in Cannes that a woman won't ask again after being turned down three times."

"I haven't turned you down," he called back as he slipped on a pair of black jeans, "I have merely postponed accepting your offer until I return."

Remington slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and exited the closet while pulling a black turtleneck over his head and carrying his black leather jacket. He dropped the jacket on the bed and left the room only to return a few minutes later with Laura's dinner on a bed tray. Setting the tray to the side of her, he cupped her neck and drew her lips to his, nibbling and teasing until she opened to him with a hum. As his tongue slipped past her lips, his hand tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it out from under the waistband of her pants. Deepening the kiss, his hand stroked her sensitive waist until she moaned against his mouth. Only then did his hand whisper over her skin until it found the bare flesh of her breast, his fingers plucking and teasing a peak until she squirmed beneath him. When her hands reached to free his turtleneck from his jeans, he ended the kiss abruptly and slipped away. She stared at him, skin flushed, eyes dazed and panting.

"We'll be taking care of _that_ when I get home, Mrs. Steele," he promised, as he walked to the bedroom door. A pillow connected with his bottom before he could pass the threshold.

"Not fair, Mr. Steele," she groused, her frown only deepening when he grinned at her.

"Of course not," he agreed, chuckling as he let the room and made his way downstairs.

Laura flopped back on the bed, covering her eyes with an arm, trying to calm her rampaging hormones. "Damn," she muttered aloud, then laughed as she shook her head. The point, this round, went to him.

* * *

Laura found herself at loose ends on the evening. Her notes and the file on Roselli were in her briefcase downstairs and she didn't feel quite up to the challenge of traversing down the stairway and back up on crutches. A movie or even a marathon of Atomic Man held no interest to her. Laying there, staring at the pictures above the mantle, inspiration struck. Rolling to her side, she opened the bottom drawer of her bedside table and fished out pen, pad and the packet that had arrived from Greece the day prior. Elena had kept her word and had copies made of all the pictures of Remington that Laura had found within the family photo albums. Already the photographs provided to them in Daniel's last letter were in the process of being duplicated, after which the originals would be stored in their safe.

Opening the packet carefully, she was pleased to discover Elena had included a note.

* * *

 _Our Laura –_

 _There were a few more pictures we thought you might enjoy as well, the last of which has remained in our bedroom for two decades. You will find them within._

 _It is our fondest hope you will bring our Xenos home again soon, this time under much more joyous circumstances._

 _Elena & Marcos_

* * *

Nibbling at her lower lip, she nodded her head sharply, while making a mental note to herself, then turned her attention to the photographs contained within the packet. They were all there: the boys and their fish; Remington's class photo; he building a sandcastle with Melina; him playing soccer; pictures of a family gathering; he and Elena working his homework together; his baptism; and, off all the pictures her very favorite, his twelfth birthday celebration. With some thought, she plucked the picture of the family gathering out of the pile and set it to the side. He'd been so sad, so lost in the picture. She had no desire to bring up his memories of that time.

She laughed aloud when she saw the first of the four new photographs Elena had sent along, then sobered, brushing a finger over one of the images. It was a picture of Remington in his late teens, early twenties, along with two of his 'siblings': Zeth and Christos. Her husband positively radiated joy in the colored image: bright blue eyes sparkling with happiness, a wide grin gracing his face, his posture relaxed, and his arms slung around the shoulders of the other men. On the back of the picture Elena had captioned, " _Our three sons, 1975_." Remington would have been twenty-two or twenty-three at the time.

Her eyes moistened at the next picture: A photograph of Elena cupping Remington's face in her hands, tears streaming down her face, a look of confused contentment on his as he looked down at her. Turning the picture over, she found Elena had scrawled " _The eve of Xenos's return, 1972_." Remington at 19 years old. Blinking her eyes, she set the picture aside and moved to the next.

A picture of Remington and Melina sitting on the beach, side-by-side, each of them with arms wrapped around bent knees, looking out across the Aegean at the setting sun. Somehow the photograph conveyed a sense of both tranquility and the fondness of the two people for one another. On the back: " _Xenos and Melina, 1979_." Remington at twenty-six or twenty-seven, the very age Laura was when he appeared in her life.

It was the final picture that stole her breath away. Remington sitting on broken wall at the ruins of Castle of Saint Nikolas, sketch pad sitting on his legs, eyes focused on something in the harbor below, hand poised to sketch. The look on his face was one of intense concentration, the look he often wore these days when planning out a security system or how to circumvent one. That unruly lock of hair brushed his forehead, making her wish she could brush it back. On the back of the picture was written, " _Our Xenos, 1964, age 11."_

She made a mental note to call Abigail first thing in the morning. She would need one more thing sent Federal Express. Picking up her pad, she envisioned their home in her head then began making copious notes. Once she was satisfied with her plan, pad, pen and packet of pictures were returned to her drawer.

Leaving her at loose ends once more…

A glance at the clock showed it was only 9:00. She didn't expect Remington to return home for at least another hour. She released a quiet growl of frustration. For a woman who spent every minute of her day on the go from the time she woke until she settled down to enjoy an evening with her husband at night, three days of no appointments, no work, no training was driving her mad. Muttering an expletive under her breath, she retrieved the book she'd bought last week from her dresser drawer, a 'must read' according to Mildred, and after grabbing a pajama top from Remington's drawers, she adjourned to the bathroom. Once the jetted tub was filled with near scalding water, she lit the candles that had permanent residence around the tub, then turned off the bathroom light. With a sigh of happiness, she slipped into the hot water, taking care to keep the splinted foot propped up on the edge of the tub.

She eyed the cover of the book speculatively, _Whitney, My Love_ by Judith McNaught. According to Mildred it was an 'epic' romance. While Laura never denied enjoying her 'smut novels', she'd never been drawn to the historical romances where it was likely women would be viewed as little more than chattel. A few pages in she found herself lost in the romance of Whitney, the free-thinking heroine whom often found herself flaunting the rules of society and the Duke of Claymore, a man unconcerned with convention whom found himself bewitched by the young Whitney and her antics.

She was so enthralled with the story, she didn't even realize Remington had returned home.

Finding the bedroom empty, Remington tossed his jacket on the end of the bed and stripped his turtleneck off on the way to the bathroom. Tossing it into the clothes hamper, he took his shoes off in the closet, setting them neatly in line with his other shoes, then stripped his socks, tossing them in the hamper as well. Grabbing the pair of pajama bottoms missing the matching top, he strolled towards the bathroom, where logic said his wife would be.

He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, crossing his arms, and stood watching her for a long minute. Finally, on silent feet he crossed the room to kneel beside the tub and pressed soft kisses across her bare collarbone. Laura leaned her head back and threaded a hand in his hair.

"Care to join me?"

"I believe I do." Remington stripped off pants and briefs, kicking them to the side. Climbing into the tub on the opposite side of her, he settled in then claimed a waterlogged foot from under the water, and out of habit began to massage. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the tub, focusing on his touch.

"Any success tonight?" she asked.

"Mmmm. Not a bit. Woman didn't so much as peek out a window all evening. It seems I'll be back at it tomorrow evening." The last sentence was said with a great deal of regret. It took a second but the reason why came to her.

"You're going to miss the poker game…"

"Mmmmmm," he confirmed. "And should surveillance carry on too late, I suspect I'll be cancelling the polo match Saturday as well. Field time is at eight, a God awful hour to attempt to enjoy one's self if you ask me." She laughed softly, knowing all too well his penchant for sleeping in weekend mornings. Her hand reached for his leg and caressed. This was to be the first time he was able to resume his poker nights and polo matches since Roselli had turned their world upside down.

"I didn't give Johnston a timeline on when we'd have this wrapped up. Maybe you could skip surveillance tomorrow and pick back up on Saturday evening," she offered. He looked at her in surprise. Laura? Suggesting business be postponed in the pursuit of pleasure? Twice in a single day, no less?

"What have you done with my partner?" he wondered.

"What do you mean?"

"In our long association, I cannot recall a single instance where you suggested neglecting a case to pursue personal pleasures, yet you've done as much twice today." She opened her eyes and studied the confusion painted on his face, in his eyes. Closing her eyes, she relaxed back against the tub again.

"As I said, I didn't provide him a timeline. No one's life is at risk, a murderer isn't going to get away, the suspect is not likely to disappear." She shrugged. "You haven't been able to enjoy poker night _or_ a match in almost two months now, by my count." She opened her eyes again and slanted a sly look at him. "And we both know too much work and no play makes Mr. Steele very tense."

"I'll be fine. I'd prefer to get this matter out of the way so we might enjoy the holiday without Agency business intruding."

"Speaking of which, anything of interest with the Agency today?" He hummed in partial answer.

"Bertrand Hannagan, manager of the Municipal Gallery has contracted with us to upgrade their security system in anticipation of an exhibition beginning in January and due to a series of vandalisms, Evelyn Corderos has hired us to install a security system at the Theater Center." A single finger scratched the side of his nose as he tried to recall the nature of the three skip traces they'd taken on. _Ah-ha._ "Three skip traces I handed off to Mildred: two in search of heirs, one a cousin that hasn't been seen or heard from in decades."

"And the Camerote stores?" she queried.

"Should be completed tomorrow afternoon. I've plans to stop by both locales right after the lunch hour." She nodded approvingly.

"Sounds like you have everything under control." It was one of those situations in which she knew she _should_ be thrilled that her husband and partner seemed to be handling matters proficiently in the wake of her absence. Still, a small part of her felt… forlorn. She didn't know quite how to assimilate the idea that the Agency could run smoothly without her. The notion left her feeling unneeded, replaceable. Silly, perhaps, but reality. Remington, ever sensitive to her mercurial moods, noted the sudden change from quiet contentment to somber contemplation.

"What is it, love?" Seeing the concern on his handsome face and unable to describe what she was feeling without appearing unappreciative of his once again taking the reins of the Agency while she was indisposed, she mentally shook off the disturbing thoughts. Sitting up, quite a feat given her propped up leg, she stroked his thighs while holding his eyes with her own. White hot desire immediately turned his eyes a startling blue.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn a certain husband had promised to take care of something when he returned home…" she hinted.

A tongue flicked against his lips as he stood in the tub. Her eyes took in his rapidly hardening shaft now at eye level. Without thought, she grasped the base, opening and closing her hand several times. His knees threatened to buckle at the sensation.

"Laura…" He groaned her name warningly, even as he stood frozen in place. His eyes closed and hands fisted when she drew him up firmly with her hand, then swirled her thumb around the tip.

"Yes, sweetheart?" she replied, inserting as much innocence in her voice as she could. She bit her lip trying not to laugh when he mumbled a deity based oath in response to her tongue running up the underside of his length. His hands tangled almost in her hair, trying to draw her away. With a husky laugh, she looked up at him through her lashes, taking the tip of him in her mouth and suckling softly.

Almost desperately, he shoved her hand away from him and he stepped quickly from the tub as her laughter echoed around them in the room. Leaning down, he neatly plucked her wet little body from the water then staggered to the counter where he sat her down, even as desperate fingers parted the flesh between her legs. Finding her already hot and wet, he locked his mouth over hers in a ravenous kiss while he aligned his body to hers and pushed forward. Her backed arched and she cried out from the pure pleasure of feeling him buried deep within her in one long thrust. Her hands reached behind him and she skimmed her nails lightly down his back. With a gasp, he tore his lips from hers, and dropping his head to her collarbone, his mouth suckled and nibbled on the skin as his hips pumped hard and fast, driving into her. Turning his head, he buried his face against her neck, his arms pulling her bottom closer to the edge.

"Babe… I… I…." he stuttered, unable to express what he was trying to say. She tilted her hips a bit more to provide him maximum pleasure and clutched a cheek of a bum in each of her hands, hanging on for the ride.

Over the six months of their marriage they'd made love in any number of ways: slow and tender, fast and hungry, playful and filled with laughter, hard and with abandon, and sometimes with an economy of motion due to need. This was the first time she'd seen him lose control in this manner, the way he was taking her almost primal in nature. One might believe she'd feel helpless, but instead she felt… empowered… by the fact that she could bring out this powerful, desperate need in him. The feeling was an aphrodisiac in its own right. While one hand continued to grasp a cheek of his bottom, her other hand whispered up his back to tangle in his hair and press his head closer to her neck, her legs tightening around his thighs as she rocketed towards what she knew would be a teeth rattling climax.

"Babe… I can't…" he panted again. She craned her head back, giving him free access to her neck, her fingers massaging his scalp as he drew her skin into his mouth, suckling firmly.

"It's okay, Rem," she breathed. His thrusts became shorter, more erratic even as he tried desperately to hold out until she found her peak. Tearing her neck away from his mouth, she sealed her lips to the skin of his collarbone and suckled deeply. His reaction was instantaneous, his entire body stiffening with a final, short, hard thrust that buried his shaft fully within her as his climax rolled through his body. Her name was ripped from his lips even as her buried his face in her shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around her. The feeling of him pulsing within her as his warm essence left his body, tipped her over the edge and left her babbling his name. He was still fully buried within her quivering body, when he began trailing kisses from cheek to eyes to jaw.

"I'm sorry, love," he whispered in contrition between kisses. "I shouldn't have…" Shaking her head, she drew back from him, then dragged her fingers through the hair on either side of his head.

"Don't be. I don't recall complaining." She tilted her head at him. "Tell me." He pressed his forehead to hers, his hands running up and down her arms.

"Between surgery, after, you not at the Agency, the long days away. I've missed you. I just needed to be… close… to you, then… pffffttt." he flicked a hand at the air. With a soft smile and a shake of her head, she ducked her head down to brush her lips against his, before leaning her head back to look at him.

"I've missed you, too." Her fingers weaved through is hair again. "I don't think either of us realize how much time we spend together each day, until we don't. I needed to… reconnect… as much as you." She drew her fingers down his back. As he arched into her touch, she felt him growing hard within her again. She scraped her nails lightly over his bottom, drawing a moan from him. "Still missing me?" she asked, a mixture of amusement and hunger lacing her words.

"Missing you? No." With a flick of his hips, he slid free of her body to scoop her up into his arms again. "Wanting you?" His lips glanced over hers as he carried her to their bed. "Always." Laying her on the bed, he stretched out next to her, drawing a flat palm down her body from neck to hip. "I believe I postponed you three times this evening," he reminded her with a wag of his brows.

"Planning to cash in all those rain checks in one evening then?" she inquired, brushing that unruly lock of hair off his forehead.

"Only seems right, given it's been three days since last we made love," he agreed.

"Making up for lost time then?" she asked, grasping his shoulders and drawing him to her.

"Merely making sure we don't continue to adding days to the years we've yet to make up for." His lips covered hers, quieting her soft laughter.


	7. Chapter 7: More than Necessary

Laura pried her eyes open before dawn, the mental alarm she'd set waking her. Turning her head to look at the clock, she did a quick calculation and confirmed Abigail would be wide awake and likely preparing to depart for Federal Express to send the requested package. Returning her head to her husband's shoulder, she reluctantly disengaged herself from his embrace. Even knowing that he'd chase her in his sleep, the thought of continuing to enjoy the warmth of his long, lean body was a potent lure. Rolling over and away from him, she tried to shake the sleep from her brain, at least enough to hold a coherent conversation with her mother. Given the time, she and Remington hadn't been asleep for even an hour and a half due to their antics throughout the night and early morning hours.

Reaching for the phone, she dialed Abigail's number then waited as the line rang on the other end.

"Hello?" Abigail's questioning voice answered the phone.

"Mother, it's Laura," she greeted in a near whisper, smiling as Remington realized their physical connection had been lost and a hand began to search.

"Laura? I can barely hear you. We must have a bad connection. Hang up and try calling me back," Abigail advised.

"It's not the connection, Mother. Remington's asleep right next to me and I don't want to wake him," she answered just as quietly.

"Well, I can barely hear you. I'll just wait until you go to another extension—"

"This is the only phone upstairs—"

"I'll wait. Just do hurry." Laura huffed out a frustrated breath that quickly turned into a smile when a hand found her waist.

"Mother, _I can't_ go to another phone. I have no way of getting down the stairs, _remember_?" She lowered her voice even further when someone spooned around her body.

"Well, if you had informed Frances and I, we would have been there to—"

"Mother, please," she ground out loudly, then quickly turned to make sure she hadn't woken Remington. Finding him still soundly asleep, she lowered her voice again and tried for patience. "Mother, I need you to add another picture to what you're sending me. One of me at the piano around eleven years old. Can you do that please?" Her mother puffed out a inconvenienced breath on the other side of the line.

"Laura, why can't you be more organized? I don't know," she drew out the last three words, exasperation with her youngest daughter clear in her voice. "I have what you asked for already packaged and sealed. I'd have to find what you're asking for, and repackage everything. Can't you—"

"If not for me, then for Remington," Laura cut in. "Please." Abigail huffed again.

"Very well, for Remington. It wouldn't be fair of me to penalize him for your fail—"

"Thank you, Mother," she hurriedly interrupted. "I have to go before I wake him up. I'll see you next week. Bye." Hanging up the phone, she resisted the urge to flop onto her back and kick her feet – well, foot – like a small child. Instead, she lay down, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband, and wriggled around a bit until she was pressed snug against his body. Lacing her fingers with the hand lying at her waist, she brought their joined hands up to lay against her chest.

She prayed fervently that he liked the surprise she was planning for him. Otherwise, she was quite certain two calls to her mother in one week – both including significant groveling – would not have been worth it.

* * *

The radio alarm clock next to their bed blared to life, and Remington groaned at being awakened, yet again, to the annoying antics of Bud and Norman.

"Lau-ra, " he growled, reaching around her to slap off the offending wake-up call as she stretched against him, "we really must come to a compromise. A man shouldn't be expected to wake to _that_ nonsense every day of his life."

"If a man would wake to something other than that," she turned to grin at him, "He wouldn't have to listen to it the rest of his life. But, _since you don't_ , I continue my morning tradition." Bussing him on the cheek, she slipped out of the bed with the assistance of her crutches. "Care to help a lady in the shower, Mr. Steele?" He propped himself up on an elbow to rake his eyes over her, then gave her a little leer.

"I'm sure I could be persuaded."

"No funny business, big guy," she warned, wagging a finger at him playfully. "Any persuasion will have to wait until tonight." He hadn't expected any less, but on principle's sake grunted his dissatisfaction. Rolling her eyes at him, she made her way to the bathroom, he close on her heels.

An hour later, showered, dressed in business attire, coffee and tea consumed, looking every bit like the power couple they were, they closed the door to their home behind them and departed for the office.

Neither had an inkling that by the time the day came to a close, they would find themselves standing on the opposite side of a chasm that they could not find their way across.

* * *

Mildred looked up in surprise when 'her kids' came through the doors of the Agency together.

"Miss Holt? What are you doing here?" she asked with raised brows. "If I remember correctly, and I do, I shouldn't be seeing you for another week and a half," she scolded lightly.

"Mr. Steele bailed me out," Laura answered with a grin.

"Paroled, more like, as there are conditions upon her release," Remington corrected, leveling a look upon his partner while blithely ignoring the scowl she sent his way.

" _What_ conditions?" Mildred asked, suspiciously, knowing the owner of the Agency all too well.

"Shall I tell her or you?" he asked his partner and wife, a grin on his face that was guaranteed to annoy her. She gave him a baleful look.

"His couch will serve as my office, for the time being, and I'm to do nothing more than is necessary." It was one thing to have to compromise to return to work at her own Agency, quite another to broadcast those terms. The words tasted bitter as they rolled off her tongue. Mildred's hoot of laughter did little to ease the situation. "What's on the calendar for today, Mildred?"

"Bupkis. Not a single appointment." Laura sighed, hoping for at least a couple of new clients to help keep her occupied throughout the day.

"Alright. If you'll bring me any files that have been completed, I'll sign off on them." Her brows furrowed when Mildred shook her head in the negative.

"The Boss has already done it." Irritation flashed through Laura, followed immediately by a small dose of guilt. _I should be happy he's taking care of the Agency in my absence,_ she scolded herself. _What is wrong with me?_ "Then bring me this month's financials to date, if you don't mind."

"You got it," Mildred agreed.

The couple ensconced themselves in Remington's office, working in companionable silence throughout the morning, she on the financials and he on reviewing once last time the security layouts for Camerote's two stores so that each detail would be fresh in his mind when he conducted his inspection that afternoon. If the afternoon allowed, he intended to swing by the Municipal Gallery to sketch out the floor plan and inspect the security system currently in place. Lunch in the form of Mexican delivery arrived shortly after noon, Mildred joining them for the meal. Finally, with reluctance, Remington straightened his tie and fastened his tie clip before standing and pulling on his blazer. Leaning down to where Laura still sat, he touched his lips to hers.

"I'll take the Auburn. I should be back around five-thirty or six o'clock, I imagine. If you wish to go home before that, ring up Fred."

"I'm sure I'll be able to find enough to keep me occupied," she assured him. She listened as he bid Mildred goodbye then returned to her financials. Not even five minutes later, she tossed the paperwork onto the coffee table with a huff. _Truth be told, I'm bored out of my mind,_ she admitted to herself. She'd gone over the financials three times, from beginning to last, finding nothing out of order. With no files to close and no new business walking through the door, there was simply nothing to do. Reaching for her crutches, she pushed herself to her feet and made her way to the reception area.

"Mildred, how are those skip traces that came in yesterday coming along?" Mildred looked up from her computer than shuffled some papers on her desk until she found what she was looking for.

"On the two cases where we were to locate the heirs, both are complete. I'm having some trouble with the third – the missing cousin. None of our normal sources have panned out, so I've pulled the credit bureau indices for all Jane Anderson's born in 1965. I haven't had a chance to follow up on those yet," Mildred filled her in.

"I'll take it from here, then." Taking the papers from Mildred, she turned towards the office only to carefully maneuver herself back around again. "Mildred, the pictures Mother is sending will be here tomorrow. I was wondering if you might be willing to be here to sign for them then get them over to the framers? I'm not sure I'll be able to slip away from Mr. Steele long enough to do it myself."

"Sure thing, hun. Oh, Miss Holt, you're going to make his year with this. Mark my words," Mildred enthused.

Laura gave her a bright smile then returned to Remington's office, this time utilizing his desk. An hour and a half later, not a single lead had panned out. Making her way back out to the reception area again, she paused at Mildred's desk when the phone rang and Mildred held up a single finger asking that she wait.

"Remington Steele Agency, Mildred Krebs speaking," she greeted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Johnston, but Mr. Steele is out of the office at the moment. Can I take a message?... No, sir, I'm not expecting him back this afternoon… If it's an emergency, I can try Mr. Steele on his car phone…" Mildred looked up as Laura held out her hand for the phone.

"Mr. Johnston, this is Laura Holt… I'm fine, thank you for asking. How can I help you… uh-huh… I understand… Yes, I'm sure that won't be a problem. What's the address?... The Woods. 316 N Maple, # 112… Yes, I have it… No, we'll make sure someone is there… Of course, we'll fill you in as soon as we have something concrete… Goodbye, Mr. Johnston."

Handing the phone back to Mildred, Laura began crutching her way back to Remington's office.

"Should I call Mr. Steele, Miss Holt?" Mildred asked.

"No, I'll do it," she answered.

She dialed Remington's car phone a half dozen times for the call to go unanswered. Calling out to Mildred, she requested that she find the number to Camerote's Wilshire store then transfer the call to her once answered. She hung up, growing frustrated, after being informed Mr. Steele had departed for the Beverly store twenty minutes before. Once again, she had Mildred look up the number and transfer the call to her. She had no more luck the second time around when she was informed Mr. Steele had not yet arrived. Hanging up, she tried his car phone one last time. With a growl of frustration she picked up the phone again.

"Fred, I need you to pick me up at the office. How far away are you?... Ten minutes?... Great. I'll meet you downstairs." Dropping the handset in the cradle, she called out to Mildred.

"Where's the camera?" Mildred appeared in the doorway.

"The Boss had it with him for surveillance last night, remember?" That earned a growl of frustration from Laura.

"Can you please get the Pentax and zoom lens out of the filing cabinet in my office then? Oh, and several new rolls of film." Mildred's eyes narrowed on her.

"Miss Holt, your doctor—"

"My doctor isn't trying to run a profitable business, Mildred," Laura interrupted, brushing the doctor's orders away with a flick of her wrist.

"Oh, but Miss Holt, the Boss isn't going to like you run—"

"Mr. Steele's neither here nor reachable," Laura sighed, her frustration mounting. "And need I remind you who the owner of this Agency really is?"

"No, it's just that—"

"Mildred, get me the camera, _please_ ," she snapped, her irritation getting the better of her. Mildred's lips thinned and her eyes narrowed at the tone, but she went to retrieve the camera as directed. Returning to the office, she unceremoniously dumped it on the desk.

"There ya go," Mildred announced, not attempting to hide her disapproval.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that," Laura apologized, trying to smooth the waters.

"It's not me that you need to be worrying about," Mildred admonished. "You promised the Boss—"

" _To do no more than necessary_!" she argued. "Our client was tipped off his wife is about to rendezvous with her lover. Mr. Steele is nowhere to be found and we could potentially wrap up this case today. That makes acting on this tip more than necessary."

"I doubt the Boss will see it that way, but it's your funeral," Mildred predicted.

"All I'm going to do is take a few pictures. It's not as though I'm pursuing a murder suspect," Laura shrugged. "Besides, it occurs to me that my current state," she glanced at her foot, "provides the perfect cover. No one is going to think a woman on crutches is tailing them." Attaching the zoom lens to the camera, she shoved the extra film canisters into her jacket pocket, then hung the camera around her neck by its strap. "I'll be back in no more than a couple of hours. If you need me, call the limo."

With those final words, Laura left the office.


	8. Chapter 8: Fred to the Rescue

Remington descended the steps outside of the Municipal Gallery and strode towards the Auburn, schematics for the current security system and his own sketches in hand. When he'd called Monroe as he'd departed the Camerote's Wilshire store, he'd been informed that it would be at least another hour before the system at the Beverly store would be ready for inspection. It had only taken a glance at his watch to make the decision to shake up his plans for the afternoon and make the Gallery his next stop.

Starting the engine, he picked up the car phone and dialed the Beverly location. After confirming with Monroe the system was ready for final testing, he gunned the engine and executed a neat u-turn, pointing his car towards the freeway. By his calculations, the trip to the store, the time needed to test the system then the drive back to Century Towers would land him at the Agency around six-thirty, later than expected. _Perhaps dinner at L'Ornate is in order,_ he mused, hoping to make up for his tardiness. With that thought in mind, he picked up the phone again and dialed the office.

"Remington Steele Agency, Mildred Krebs speaking," Mildred answered on the other side of the line.

"Mildred, it's me. Let me speak to Miss Holt, if you will," he requested, as he depressed the accelerator and took a swift left turn at the yellow light.

"No can do, Boss. Miss Holt's not here." Unseen by Remington, Mildred grimaced at her desk in the office, already anticipating his reaction when she gave him the news.

"Got bored and went home early did she? I'll just call her there then. Thank you, Mil—"

"She didn't go home, Boss," Mildred interrupted. Remington's brows raised.

"Where ever did she get off to then?" he asked, nearly dropping the phone when he cut the wheel of the car hard right to merge onto the entrance ramp to the freeway.

"Oh, Mr. Steele, I told Miss Holt you wouldn't like it," she fretted.

"Mildred, please, where is my wife?" he asked, his voice strident.

"Mr. Johnston called with a tip on his wife. Miss Holt tried to call you, but when she couldn't reach you she took the Agency's old camera and went hers—"

"Where? Where was she going?" he all but growled.

"Some place called 'The Woods'. She took the limo—" Remington slammed down the handset without saying goodbye and picking it back up immediately dialed the limo. The phone rang several times before being picked up.

"Hello?" Fred's voice came over the line.

"Fred, Steele here. Let me speak with Miss Holt."

"I can't do that, sir. She's not in the car right now." The muscle in Remington's cheek twitched, his jaw clenching as his anger with Laura continued to build.

"Where are you at?"

"Burbank, sir," Fred answered. That muscle twitched again.

" _Where precisely_ in Burbank?"

"The Woods. 316 North Maple, sir."

"Listen up, mate. I know this is well outside your purview, but I need you to get out of the limo, wife, and keep your eyes on her back. Can you do that?" find my

"No problem, Mr. Steele."

"Thanks, mate. I'm on my way. I'll be there as quickly as possible."

Hanging up the phone, Remington floored the accelerator, speeding tickets be damned.

* * *

As she'd hoped, Laura arrived at The Woods well before Mrs. Johnston's planned rendezvous. Checking in with the front office, 'Tracy Lord' explained to the rental agent that she and her husband were looking for a short term rental while they were in LA on business. Skimming Laura over from head-to-toe, his eyes eventually settling on Laura's engagement ring and wedding band, the agent was all too eager to assist. After a brief review of The Woods' offerings, the agent offered to take her on a tour of the grounds. She graciously declined under the guise that her husband had given her explicit instructions to tour the grounds, taking pictures of the building facades and its amenities. Dollar signs dancing in his eyes, the agent readily agreed.

Thus, Laura would be perfectly positioned to snap pictures of apartment 112 when Mrs. Johnston arrived. The svelte brunette wearing a hat and sunglasses nervously surveyed the area before reaching up and knocking on the door. Laura's brows raised in surprise when a tall, rather frumpy man opened the door of the apartment. Stepping outside, he, too, looked around the courtyard, clearly dismissing the young woman on crutches that seemed to be scrambling through her purse for something. In the seconds before Mrs. Johnston was invited inside, Laura raised the camera, taking a series of rapid succession photos.

Repositioning herself aside a thick palm in the courtyard she'd scouted out before the arrival of her suspect, she pointed the camera towards the living room window and zoomed in. From this angle she could see most of the living room and dining area. The blinds in the bedroom were drawn, so if the pair moved immediately there she would be out of luck. But, if they would engage in at least a clench or two before retiring there, case closed. She was surprised when Mrs. Johnston sat down on the edge of the couch facing the window, knotting and unknotting her hands, clearly nervous. *Snap snap* _First time?_ she wondered with a raised brow.

The woman's hands shook almost violently when she reached up to remove hat and glasses. The shiner on the woman's right eye made Laura's brow furrow *Snap snap snap* then turned into a deep frown when the woman lifted the sleeve of her dress to display the bruises on her upper arm. *Snap snap snap* Keeping one eye on the pair, she quickly switched out the film to a new roll, relieved to see this one permitted seventy-two exposures. Aiming the camera again she continued to watch as the couple conversed, Mrs. Johnston doing most of the talking as tears streamed down her face. *Snap snap snap* The more she watched, the more convinced Laura became that this was not a rendezvous but something else altogether.

Ten minutes into the couple's conversation, the couple remained half a room apart, the man never offering Mrs. Johnston any form of comfort even as she continued to talk, cry, shake. Laura zoomed in on the woman's hands when she extracted a piece of paper and several photographs from her purse and after, a stack of money banded together by the bank. *snap snap snap snap* She held all out to the man, then lay it on the table in answer to something he said. *Snap snap snap* The man crossed the room to pick up the offering. As he turned around, he skimmed the contents of the piece of paper *Snap snap* then looking up his eyes suddenly narrowed. Rushing towards the window *snap snap* his eyes focused on Laura's location.

 _Uh-oh, time to get out of here,_ Laura thought to herself. Dropping the camera back around her neck and doing a one-eighty on her crutches, she moved as quickly as possible, picking up the pace even a little more when she heard the apartment door slung open hard enough to hit the wall behind it and footsteps moving rapidly in her direction. She hadn't made it ten feet when a hand grabbed her by the neck and swung her around, slamming her back against the wall as her crutches went flying. It took everything she had in her to keep her healing ankle from attempting to support her weight. Of course, the hand currently wrapped around her neck helped, ironically, in that endeavor.

A pair of beady, brown eyes looked her over.

"Who are you and why are you taking pictures of us?" he demanded to know. Laura slapped at his hands, trying to get him to ease his hold a bit, pointing to her mouth indicating she couldn't speak. His fingers relaxed only slightly but enough for her to draw a deep breath.

"Tracy… Tracy Lord," she gasped. "Pictures of the complex for my husband… to see if he likes it…" she panted.

"That doesn't explain why you were taking pictures of my lady and me." He gave her a little shake with the hand around the neck, before shoving her hard back against the wall again.

"Just an idea for my husband," she grappled with his hands again, "Living and dining size."

"I'm not buying it," her assailant growled. "Now how 'bout we go back to the apartment you were so interested in and we have a little talk." Her eyes widened, not due to his words, but because she'd just spotted Fred creeping up behind him, fire extinguisher raised over his head. She closed her eyes as it came down on the back of the man's head, knocking him out cold. As he fell, he took her with him, landing her partially underneath of him.

Which is how Remington found them, having seen the assault upon his wife, and Fred's actions ending it before he could reach them.

"Laura!" Shoving her assailant's unconscious form off of her, he helped her to a sitting position, his hands and eyes checking her over for injury. "Fred, call the Burbank PD from the limo," he directed. Finding nothing more substantial than red marks on her neck where the man's fingers had squeezed, he stood to retrieve her crutches. Helping her up, he gave her a moment to straighten her clothes, then handed the crutches to her. Once she was standing on her own, he did some straightening of his own.

"Go. Apartment 112. Mrs. Johnston. She looks as though someone has beaten her," Laura directed. "I'll wait here."

"And should he come to?" Remington inquired. She waved a crutch towards him.

"I'll convince him to take another nap." With a curt nod, he took off in long strides towards the apartment.

Ninety minutes and two arrests later, Remington released Fred for the evening, their faithful driver more than a little shaken up when he'd come far closer to the action than he was accustomed to or cared to be. Remington had called Monroe and rescheduled testing of the Beverly store until the next day at noon. As the Auburn cruised above the speed limit along the street of LA, the occupants both remained silent. Several times Laura had turned towards Remington to say something, but in seeing the twitch in his cheek and the set of his jaw, reconsidered each time.

She had no idea how to approach him. He'd been angry with her countless times in the past. Furious with her several times. This went beyond either. He'd not put on the cool, aloof mantle of Fabrini or even the carefree, devil-may-care persona of John Roby. He'd not donned the mental clothes of Johnny Todd, the streetwise man with an edge, or of the casually indifferent Michael O'Leary. No, the man sitting beside her was all Remington - partner, friend and husband - and she'd only seen him this incensed once before, after their argument at the Freidlich Spa, and even that might not compare.

The fact that he got out of the car and strode into the house without offering her assistance, only confirmed the extent of his displeasure. Reaching for her crutches, she extracted herself from the car, and followed a good distance behind him. Closing the front door of their home behind her, she watched his retreating back as he rapidly climbed the stairs, effectively cutting himself off from her in her current condition. With a shake of her head and a sigh, she withdrew to the living room, and sank down on the couch to wait him out.

Dropping her head into her hands she rubbed at her temples, an attempt at warding off the headache that was threatening. Her emotions were roiling themselves, switching frequently from guilt to fear to anger. Anger that in his silence he was shutting her out, yet again. Fear that this time she'd pressed the envelope too far and the price to be paid might be more than she was willing to ante up. And, of course, guilt. Guilt that some part of her had known, given the opportunity, when she'd brokered her deal with Remington that she had no intention of sitting on the couch should the opportunity arise to handle business as she would on any other day. Hence, her carefully worded agreement of 'no more than necessary.'

Upstairs, Remington stripped off his clothes on the way to the bathroom, dumping the lot of it carelessly into the hamper. Turning on the shower, he threw himself under its warm spray. He wasn't sure what made him angrier: that she'd broken her promise…again… not to place herself at risk without him there to watch her back or her promise to remain at the Agency if he relented on the doctor's orders. Oh, he was quite sure of why his stomach was still somewhere in the vicinity of his toes: seeing her on the ground, under her assailant, knowing that if Fred hadn't gotten to her… A shiver slithered down his spine at the mere thought.

Turning off the shower, he ran the towel over his body, then hung it on the rack. After dressing in khakis, a polo and tennis shoes, he ran a comb through his damp hair and went downstairs, pausing on the bottom step to consider his options. With a swipe of his hand through his hair, he turned left into the living room. Shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, he gave a shake of his head, unable to start or participate in the argument that needed to be had. Instead, he walked past the couch, her eyes following him, and continued on to the kitchen. As angry as he was with her, he couldn't leave her to make her own meal. There he warmed up another slice of the leftover lasagna, and prepare a salad. Placing both on a tray with a glass of ice water, he returned to the living room.

"I'll just take this upstairs and I'll be back for you," he told her stiffly. Her fingers returned to her temples and circled vigorously. Head downcast, she looked up at him through her lashes.

"Remington… we need to talk," she approached quietly.

"Upstairs or down, Miss Holt?" he asked, his voice turning to ice.

"Rem…" she appealed to him. Blue eyes snapped to her face, the intensity of the anger she saw there making her drop her hands to rub her arms as though a sudden chill were in the air.

" _Don't_ ," he bit out, then taking a deep breath, shook his head, averting his eyes from her. "Upstairs or down?" he repeated, less harshly.

"Down," she answered. Setting the tray on the table in front of her, he turned to leave. He'd crossed the threshold to the foyer before she'd realized his intent.

"You're leaving?" she called after him.

"Since there is no case to pursue tonight," he responded pointedly, "I'm off to poker." With that he left the house, closing the door behind him.

Remaining on the couch, Laura's fingers continued to rub at her temples. She wondered when… and if… Remington would come home.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: Come, now. Yes, this is the holiday series, but you really didn't expect that there would be no conflict, no cases, did you? This is Remington Steele, after all, and an "episode" would be incomplete without either.**_


	9. Chapter 9: Stalemate

Remington dropped his keys on the foyer table as he entered the house at a little past two in the morning. A successful night at the poker table had lined his pockets with a nice bit of blunt, yet it had done little to improve his mood. His mind had shifted often throughout the game to the events of the day. The more he dwelled on it, the more he became convinced she'd manipulated him from the outset with her wording of "no more than is necessary" when they'd struck the deal to ease her doctor's restrictions. That she would abuse his trust in such a manner only further fueled his ire, the act even more offensive to him than her broken promises.

He'd gifted her his absolute trust from the very beginning, something he'd not done with anyone before. Okay, perhaps not in relation to his past, the uncertainty of how she would react reason enough to make him shy away from revealing those details to her. But trust in so much as he took on faith each word that she spoke. Even after Westfield. Even after Roselli. That she would blatantly manipulate him, using that trust as a tool to get her way at whatever the costs?

In truth, it wounded and wounded deeply at that. He'd never have conceived it of her, of all people. She'd conned him plain and simple. He hadn't believed anything could have injured him more than the day she'd told him she'd been better off before he entered her life. Well, now she'd found the thing that could.

He stared at the stairs in front of him and gave a shake of his head. Committing himself to moving as silently as possible so he could change and retrieve pillow and blanket to sleep downstairs, he crept up the stairs and all but held his breath as he crossed their bedroom… only to realize Laura was not lying in bed asleep. It took his brain a second to process the reason.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled to himself aloud.

Retracing his steps back down the stairs, a turn to the left confirmed Laura was curled up on the living room couch asleep. In his anger before he'd left that evening, he never thought about how she would make it upstairs to bed. She'd apparently retrieved the afghan off one of the chaises outside, then recommissioned the decorative throw pillows from the nearby love seat, using one to prop her healing leg and the other to rest her head upon. He pondered, briefly the idea of carrying her up to sleep in their bed, while he took the couch in her stead, but in the end, was unwilling to risk waking her knowing she'd try to engage him in a conversation about the day's events. He wouldn't have been ready prior to that evenings revelation. In light of it? Assured that she was asleep and her healing ankle protected, he again retired to their room. Stripping down, forgoing night clothes all together, he climbed into bed. Once the alarm clock was set, he rolled to his side, his troubled thoughts following him into his dreams.

* * *

The alarm sounded at five-fifteen, drawing a slew of creative curses from Remington's mouth. Slapping the offensive appliance silent, he resisted the temptation to roll over and go back to sleep. Two and a half hours of sleep was not enough by half, but even more so as the night prior he and Laura had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning making love. That memory served as a fresh knife in his gut after the events of the day before. Climbing out of bed, he, out of habit, smoothed out the sheets and comforter before taking a five-minute shower. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he retrieved his garment bag from the closet, given the number of changes he'd need to make throughout the day ahead: polo clothes, suitable casual clothes for brunch after, a suit for the Camerote inspection, then in a spur of the moment decision, a set of clothes appropriate for the academy. Shoes added to the bottom of the bag, shaving kit gathered and laid next it, he dressed in jeans and a button down for the trip to the club.

A quick glance into the living room showed Laura still slept soundly. He left the house with her none the wiser of his arrival and departure.

* * *

Laura woke at six-forty-five. She'd retrieved the afghan off the veranda shortly after one, and had curled up on the couch, determined to wait for Remington to arrive home. She'd had hours to sort out her thoughts and feelings on the day's events and recognized there were apologies owed – on both sides. If they allowed the discourse to fester for much time at all, the chasm between them would only continue to grow wider.

Stretching, she sat up, somewhat surprised that she'd been left to sleep on the couch all night. Normally, Remington's nearly courtly behavior would prohibit him from allowing her to sleep anywhere other than in a bed. His leaving her there continued to speak to the degree of his anger… and his need to avoid a confrontation in the early morning hours. Now, she was left with no choice but to wait out his appearance downstairs, which knowing him and his weekend sleeping habits wouldn't be for several hours. Gaining her feet with the aid of her crutches, she maneuvered her way to the kitchen to retrieve a cup of coffee that the machine should automatically have waiting for her. She nearly growled when she found the pot empty, then berated herself soundly when she realized she hadn't set it up the night before.

Ten minutes later, steaming cup of coffee in hand, she sat down in a chaise on the veranda pulling the afghan up around her knees. She sat lost in her own thoughts at first worrying over the conversation… _no, argument,_ she amended, facing the reality of what was to come… before forcefully redirecting her thoughts to other things looming on the horizon. There was the surprise she had planned for Remington… she'd be wise when she refilled her coffee to call Mildred and remind her of her promise to be at the office. Thanksgiving dinner for family and friends in five short days… had everything that was needed for the meal been purchased? She wasn't sure. Decorating for Thanksgiving. She scrunched her nose realizing they hadn't remembered to pick up the magazines for decorating ideas. She'd have Remington do that today. Then she'd need to get with Jocelyn, so the shopping could be done… and, of course, the actual decorating. And Christmas shopping. _That_ thought made her groan aloud. Normally she began her shopping in August, but here they were near the end of November and she hadn't purchased so much as a single thing. The idea of stores and malls packed with holiday shoppers was enough to make her a bit nauseated.

A return trip to the kitchen saw her putting Remington's tea on to steep and calling Mildred to remind her about the expected package. The latter had been wholly unnecessary of course, as the ever-reliable Miss Krebs was on the way out the door when Laura called. Retrieving her briefcase, she positioned herself on a barstool at the kitchen table, fresh cup of coffee in hand, and used the phone there to call Frances. The sisters had, surprisingly in Laura's eyes, grown closer since Frances and Donald's move to the LA area. The call today was with a purpose in mind: creating a list of what the children were hoping to find under the Christmas tree. Call completed, she scribbled out the list of additional people for whom presents were needed. By the time she was done, her eyes had grown wide. Only a year ago her Christmas list had consisted of only eight people: Abigail, Frances, Donald, Daniel, Mindy, Laurie Beth, Mildred and Remington. This year? Twenty eight when you added Marcos and Elena; Zeth and Calista and their six children; Christos and Helen and their five children; Melina; Maxie; and last, but not least, Veronica. She groaned aloud and rested her forehead against the kitchen counter just thinking of all that Christmas shopping. By all rights, she needed to add three more names to that list: Bernice's son, Bo, and Murphy's twins, Nicholas and Zachary. That earned three thumps of said forehead against the kitchen counter.

Glancing up at the clock, she realized it was a little after ten and still there had been neither sight nor sound of one angry husband. With a shake of her head, she acknowledged she was going to have to traverse those stairs to wake him. In the foyer she stood for long seconds dreading the upwards climb. Several minutes, and a lot of panting later, she'd made it to the landing, before entering the bedroom only to find it empty and the bed not slept in. Her brows drew together. It was one thing for him to be angry with her, quite another for him to be angry enough that he'd chosen to distance himself so completely as to stay the night out. She see-sawed between anger and devastation, settling at last on anger.

"Well, Mr. Steele, if you think I'm going to sit around all afternoon worrying about where you've gone, you have another thing coming," she announced to the empty room.

An hour later, bathed, groomed, dressed and with the Rabbit's keys in hand, she again faced the stairwell. With a look of aggravated resignation, she tossed her crutches down into the foyer below, then slowly made her way down, one hop at a time. Back on her crutches, she snatched her purse off the foyer table and slammed out the front door.


	10. Chapter 10: Personal Inventory

Chapter 10: Personal Inventory

While Laura's temper ignited, Remington's continued to simmer. He'd tried taking out a bit of his frustration with the mallet upon ball during the polo match, but it had done nothing to improve his mood although he'd managed to draw several sidelong glances from Monroe. At brunch, he'd been taciturn, at best, his mind focused on his stubborn, hard headed, difficult wife. Monroe no longer resorted to surreptitious looks but regarded him openly. Shifting in his seat, Remington blithely ignored him and his unspoken questions. By the time they'd arrived at Camerote's to inspect the system, lack of sleep catching up to him and ongoing irritation with Laura saw Remington barking at several of Monroe's men, inspiring Monroe to grab him by the arm and to escort him into an empty office. Closing the door behind them, Monroe stood with his arms crossed, eying his friend. Remington held up both his hands.

"I was out of line out there," he admitted. "I'll make my apologies and set things right."

"See to it that you do. The last thing we need is three of our finest installers walking because they've unjustly been the target of your pique," Monroe admonished. "Care to tell me what's had your temper on edge since last evening, Mick?" Remington rubbed the back of his neck, tipping his face towards the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"Not particularly."

"I see. I'll not press. You know where to find me should you need to talk, old friend."

"I appreciate that, mate. I'll see to those apologies now." Remington clapped is friend on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Once the apologies were made, Remington left the store after signing off on the system installation. Climbing into the Auburn, he closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face. Monroe's instincts had been correct. He _did_ need to talk things through. The problem was, the person to whom he'd normally turn in times of emotional turmoil was herself the source of it. Putting the car into drive, Remington headed to the academy in hopes a solid round or two of fencing would help him burn off some of his anger.

* * *

It took some experimentation, but Laura finally managed to find a position that both protected her healing ankle and allowed her to be comfortable. Once situated, she drove into LA proper. Purchasing a stack of magazines offering holiday decorating ideas, she stopped at a little bistro for lunch. By the time her meal was consumed, she had a list in her hand of the items she would need to decorate the house for Christmas. A call to Jocelyn netted all too willing assistance, and the two women spent the afternoon shopping at Kirklands, Crate and Barrel, Pier One, and last, but not least, Ikea. Still angry and unwilling to confront Remington if he'd decided to return home, Laura offered to take Jocelyn for an early dinner at L'Ornate.

Arriving home at nearly seven-thirty, Laura's heart clenched when she didn't find the Auburn in the drive or under the carport. Her anger had fizzled and morphed into guilt somewhere around the time her salad had been served. By the time their dinner plates had been cleared and she and Jocelyn had settled in with an after-dinner coffee, remorse for her duplicity had set in.

Listening to the silence of the house surrounding her, she was reminded of when she'd arrived at Remington's apartment a year and a half ago to find him gone. She'd sensed the lack of life, the lack of his warmth in his flat as soon as she'd walked through the door, just as she could now. And then, like now, it had been her deception that had left her standing in an empty room, alone and full of regret.

With quiet determination, one slow step at a time she made her way up the stairs towards their bedroom. Wearily, she sat on the edge of the bed then eased herself backwards until she sat with back pressed to the headboard. Propping her healing leg, she wrapped her arms around the other bent knee and allowed her mind to work through the events that had brought them here.

If she were truthful with herself, and when her outrage with him had waned she'd begun to be, Remington was not simply angry. He would have seen her careful wording of their agreement for the deception that it was. The violation of his trust would have cut deeply. Then to add insult to injury, she'd also broken her promise to him not to put herself into a position where life and limb might be injured without someone there watching her back. Granted, she'd not believed for a heartbeat that the surveillance might put her well-being in peril, but all Remington would see was the end result: her battered, then stuck underneath her assailant.

Her argument, her very truthful defense of that broken promise wouldn't hold water. She'd believed she was going to do nothing more than take some pictures of a cheating spouse. But, she had to ask herself, if she'd _known_ what she was actually walking into, would it have made difference? Would she have still gone, alone, to wrap up the job? It wasn't a proud moment when she admitted to herself she would have… and would still have broken that promise to him. She was, after all, Laura Holt, the woman who stood on her own, needed no one, could do the job as well as any man… probably even better. Her independence, imagination, and tenacity had allowed her to con an entire city into believing the mythical 'Remington Steele' existed. She'd built the Agency up from nothing into an internationally renowned detective agency on her blood, sweat and tears. It could be said the success of the Agency was _because_ of her willingness to place finances, life and limb on the line.

 _But,_ her mind niggled at her, _it wasn't just your own efforts that made this Agency what it is, now was it?_ She shook her head in answer to her own question. _No, it wasn't._ During the first two years, Murphy and Bernice had been intricate parts of starting the Agency, of perpetuating the fraud. While the Agency was heading in the right direction, it still consistently ran in the red.

Her eyes lifted to consider the sketch of Remington brushing his lips over her knuckles on the night he'd revealed he'd absconded with the identity of her mystical boss. That night had marked the true turning point for the Agency. The Agency had received an astounding amount of press exposure, due largely to the suddenly flesh and blood man who had charmed the audience both in appearance and in the way he'd been so fast to pay accolades to his associates. In the months that followed, her carefully laid out plan of networking the 'front man' only served to draw more press. But it was their partnership – his instincts and unique 'skill sets', her cool logic and ability to relate the unrelated - more than anything else, that had made the Agency the success it was today.

She had no doubt she would have had the Agency operating in the black without Remington, but it wouldn't be the internationally known without their joint efforts. It wouldn't be as financially solid as it was. And it wouldn't have been nearly as much… fun.

Five and a half months ago, she'd been prepared to walk away from the Agency as the threat of deportation loomed over their heads. She'd realized then, if made to choose between a life with Remington or the Agency, the only choice that could be made was the former. Yet, yesterday she'd put that life with him at risk… for what? She pressed her fingertips to her brows, as she accepted the harsh reality of that answer. Last spring, at the Friedlich Spa, he'd nailed her to the wall with an accusation and she'd resented it. Oh, how she'd resented it.

* * *

" _ **You! You want to have complete control!"**_

* * *

And there was the long and short of it. After Remington had taken charge of the office twice in as many months… _no, had adeptly taken charge_ , she corrected… she'd felt… replaceable. Had felt that every decision made for the Agency no longer needed her input. He'd come into his own over the years, and was now every bit as capable of running the Agency as she. Maybe some part of her had been afraid he'd take note of exactly that and had needed to prove that he still needed her to take the lead, to keep things moving ahead, to make sure all the t's were crossed and i's were dotted, and to assure the clients _their case_ was always the priority for Remington Steele Investigations.

 _Bullocks._ She could hear him saying it now.

She'd been insecure… jealous even. And because of it, she'd set out to prove a point. What was the saying? By hook or crook. She knew Remington went out of his way to make her happy. She knew he'd take her at her word, even if his instincts warned him not to. And she'd used both against him.

She mentally popped herself in the head, then took a second to mourn the 'good old days' when they avoided discussing how they'd wronged or injured one another. Duck and hide. It had been so much simpler then in many ways. And so destructive. Who knew how many years they'd lost because of it. Like it or not, there were confessions to be made and apologies to be sincerely offered.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, she grabbed her crutches and stood. Not up to traversing the stairs again, it seemed book and bed were in order. Digging through the hamper, she pulled out the dress shirt Remington had been wearing yesterday prior to changing and storming out. Inhaling deeply, his scent, as it always did, gave her some peace. Slipping out of her own clothes and tossing them into the hamper, she buttoned herself into his shirt.

It was only as she turned to leave the closet that she recognized something was missing. Closing her eyes and mentally picturing the closet as it was just the day before, her eyes flew open. She traveled the length of his rack, not finding what she was looking for. With a great deal of dread, she moved slowly to the bathroom. At only a glance she saw his shave kit was not at the end of the counter where it normally stood. Numbly, disbelievingly, she left the bathroom and returned to their bed. Slipping under the covers, she turned out the light. Sleep. Escape. Sometimes, in order to maintain one's sanity, escape was a necessity.

She stared at the ceiling above her as head and heart insisted he wouldn't have left her. History was _not_ repeating itself. This was Remington, not Wilson, not her father. They'd waited too long to have this. They were too happy for him to abandon this.

But in that place, deep in her heart, where her fear of never being enough to make someone stay lived, those old fears came roaring back to life. Rolling to her side, ankle be damned, she reached for Remington's pillow and wrapped her body around it. When she finally drifted off to sleep, her beleaguered heart was hanging on by a thread to its faith that when she woke in the morning, she'd find her husband sleeping beside her where he belonged, where she needed him to be.


	11. Chapter 11: Reminders Required

Chapter 11: Reminders Required

Remington departed the fencing academy at nearly seven in the evening. The exercise had done little good to clear his head, but had at least taken the edge off his anger if for no reason other than pure exhaustion. Still, a clear head he'd need before returning home to a wife he was quite sure would be in a fine temper by now. Long ago in London, he'd given her his word that he wouldn't leave when they had an argument; despite how difficult it might be, he'd stay so they could work things out. Then in Vail, another revelation from her: walking out in times of strain was akin to a punishment, a tactic often used by Wilson to express his displeasure.

Yes, he had his own apologies to make when he arrived home, but first, he needed the time to clear his head, elsewise they'd find themselves embroiled in an argument of the likes they'd not seen since Friedlich Spa.

To that end, he drove out to Will Rogers beach. The two-mile stretch of beach was quieter than most in the LA area, and after dark, on a late fall evening, would be nearly empty. Taking off socks and shoes, then rolling up the cuffs of his jeans, he lit out on foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

It wasn't always easy being married to Laura Holt, the last of that being the reason why. As tenaciously as she'd clung to her need to rely on no one, to stand on her own in years past, in the time he'd been pondering marriage to her, some part of him had believed that once she realized he was here to stay, she'd let go of her need to prove to him and the world that Laura Holt needed no one, she was an island unto herself. And therein lay the reason they were where they were at this time: From the second they'd exchanged vows in their farce of a wedding on the tuna trawler, he'd seen her as his wife, he her husband, despite all the turmoil swirling around them at the time; she, on the other hand, still viewed herself as Laura Holt, an independent woman of the 80's who happened to be married.

Priorities. Dreams. It was a conflict of both. His priority was to keep her happy; his dream was the life they now had, the family they might one day have. Her priority was the Agency; her dream to prove to the world that a woman could have it all, home and career, even if the former was subsidiary to the latter. This was evident in her clinging to her maiden name in the course of business, a notion he had wholly supported. But in light of events the day before, it was clear only one of them was wholly invested in this marriage, while the other? She had made it clear she would sacrifice their relationship in the name of business.

Business as usual. _That_ was what cut deepest.

He'd been stunned six months ago when she'd told him if he was banished to Europe for good by the INS, she'd leave the Agency behind and start anew. He'd been so overwhelmed by the thought she'd choose _him,_ that it hadn't occurred to him until earlier today that the Agency would still play the most prominent part of her life. If they were to start a European branch it would have to. There would be a client base to cultivate, their reputation to further. He would have gladly put in the hours to make that new Agency a reality, successful, because that is what would make her happy. He would have gladly put her dreams before his own, but would she even consider his dreams in the process? That he didn't know the answer to that was bothersome; that yesterday she'd made it clear she would sacrifice their personal life for her professional dreams …

She'd made it clear by deed: while one of them had immersed the whole of themselves into this marriage, the other was still wading around in the shallows, unsure if she was willing to take the plunge.

Had he expected any less? he wondered. It had taken four years for her to allow him past those walls of hers, did he honestly believe that she'd embrace their marriage overnight? Believed? Maybe not. But his hopes and his dreams about their future had centered on such a phenomenon occurring.

 _You should have known better, Steele, old sport,_ he silently admonished himself. _Your Miss Holt is nothing if not consistent in her hesitancy and capriciousness._

 _And_ , he at last admitted to himself, _steering clear of hearth and home the last thirty odd hours is only likely to have pushed her further towards the shore. Time to pull on your boxing mitts and head home, mate._

Remington arrived home shortly after ten, his brows furrowing at the sight of the Rabbit parked in the carport given the day after her surgery he'd parked the car in the garage until the doctor cleared her to drive again. _Bloody hell, what's she been about in my absence?_ Parking the Auburn on the drive next to the carport, he turned off the engine and alighted from the vehicle as he absorbed his second surprise since in as many minutes: the house was completely dark. Entering the house on silent feet, he set is keys on the foyer table and turned right into the living room expecting to find Laura asleep on the couch there. In yet another shocking turn of events, she was nowhere to be found on the first floor. A slew of creative cuss words was uttered under his breath, directed towards himself. Clearly, she'd risked navigating the stairs on her own. Sure enough as he crossed the threshold of their room, her could see her petite frame tucked under the covers of the bed.

Approaching the bed on catlike feet, he could only shake his head.

 _Ah, damn me,_ he berated himself seeing her dressed in the shirt he'd worn the day before and wrapped around his pillow while memories of a similar scene in Vail flitted through his head.

* * *

" _ **When you shut me out, turn away, you take more than Wilson ever did. You take everything: partner, friend, almost lover, those touches."**_

* * *

Cocking his hip, Remington sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Laura flinched at the contact, until his presence invaded her dreams. She rolled to her back and looked up him with sleep glazed eyes.

"I'm sorry, love," he told her with quiet remorse, "I shouldn't have disappeared on you as I did."

"Your garment bag and shave kit are gone. Did you leave?" Her confusion showed clearly in her eyes, as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, leaning against the headboard. Reaching for his pillow, he automatically propped up her ankle.

"Laura, I promised you a long time ago that I wasn't going anywhere, if you recall." He lifted her heavy hair and moved it over her shoulder. "Certainly that applies now more than ever." He held her chin between his fingers and leaned close until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "I've no intention of breaking the vows we made."

"Where have you been then? You didn't come home last night, you packed…What else am I supposed to think?"

"I didn't _pack_ ," he refuted. "I arrived home from poker after two. You were asleep on the couch. I…" he blew out a breath, "didn't want to risk waking you by bringing you upstairs—"

"You didn't want to fight," she interrupted, nodding her head knowingly.

"I didn't want to fight," he confirmed. "I needed clothes for polo, brunch, the system inspection and fencing."

"You weren't here when I woke…"

"Field time at eight," he reminded her. "I left shortly after six." She closed her eyes and nodded.

"You didn't leave."

"Avoided an argument that would have gone quite poorly, yes. Left? It seems to bear repeating." He cupped a check in each of his hands and waited until her eyes met his. "No matter how angry I am, no matter the argument, _I'm not going anywhere, Laura_." She threaded her fingers through her hair and looked at him.

"You had every right to be angry," she conceded, looking away then leading out a puff of frustrated air. Apologizing had never come easily to her, even when those apologies were clearly due. Kneading her hands together, she returned her gaze to somewhere around his chin. "It wasn't fair of me to manipulate your trust the way I did… _or_ to break the promise I'd made. I have no defense for the first except to say…" she grimaced, as she said the words "…I was…" she growled as her pride took a hit by the admission "… feeling… obsolete, I guess."

"Obsolete? I'm afraid you'll have to explain that gem," he requested, clearly perplexed.

"Alright," she drew out the word on a sigh. "Twice now in a little more than a month, you've had to step in and run the Agency because of my injuries. And you've done so, flawlessly." She looked away from him again. Remington barked out a laugh, then held up his hands when her head snapped in his direction and settled a glare on him.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just that… Good Lord, woman, is that what's been going on in that head of yours? What inspired your deception? That you believe you're replaceable?" She crossed her arms and simply stared at him in answer. He couldn't help the quiet chuckle. "Had you paid attention, Miss Holt, you'd have realized that I have been very fortunate during both tenures as head of the office." Her brow furrowed.

"What do you mean, fortunate?"

"It has been skip traces, which are placed for the most part in Mildred's capable hands, and security contracts, which are my area of specialty. No murders, no investigations per se, and certainly nothing requiring a great deal of leg work." He raised a brow at her. "Beyond that, you seem to have ignored one very pertinent fact."

"What's that?" she asked him skeptically.

"Unlike yourself, as much as I enjoy what we do, I'm not willing to sacrifice all else in my life for the Agency." Her frown only deepened.

"And you think I am… willing that is?" She found the thought troublesome.

He had the decency to grimace, realizing he'd inadvertently traipsed too close to the realization that had come to him on the beach. Lifting a hand to his lips, he began to worry a thumbnail with his teeth. _Bugger me,_ he thought to himself, _it's one thing to try to work through our discourse in a civilized manner instead of getting into a row, and quite another to blurt out my thoughts on the why of it all._

"Remington." He looked at her when she spoke his name in that way of hers that commanded his attention. "And you think I'm willing to sacrifice everything for the Agency?"

"I think…" he began, trying to choose his words as carefully as possible, "…that decisions made by yourself in the past, more recently in the last two days, speak for themselves, don't you?" Standing, he crossed the room to his dresser and pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms. Her eyes followed his motion as she pondered what he said, then her brows lifted in sudden understanding.

"You think I would sacrifice our life, _our marriage,_ for the Agency? Is that what you're saying?" She was simultaneously affronted and concerned by the idea he believed that. "I think I've proven on numerous occasions – DesCoines… Cranston… Keyes… the INS – that I would prioritize you over the Agency if it came to having to make a choice." He leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sacrifice in its entirety? No." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly while rubbing his hand over his lower face, struggling to find the right words. He returned to sit by her side, taking her hand in his before speaking. Patting her hand then clasping it between both of his, he waited until her eyes met his. "What is it you've said to me a few times now? That it seems when it comes to us, you're always playing catch up?" Laura nodded her head slowly, wondering where he was going with this. "It occurred to me this evening that one of us has been fully vested in this marriage since our farce of a 'wedding' on the trawler, all the more so since we spoke our vows in Greece. _This_ ," he swept a hand across the room, "is _my_ dream. You," he traced her cheek and jaw with the back of his fingers, "a home, and one day – _when you're ready_ ," he qualified, "a family. All that I never believed could be mine, far more I believed I might even deserve, the lot of it made possible by you." Lifting a tendril of hair, he toyed with it.

"Remington—" she interrupted in a soft voice, only to find his index finger pressing lightly against her lips.

"Let me finish, love," he requested. When she nodded, his hand returned to her hair. "From the start, you've never lied to me about what mattered most to you: to stand on your own, to be seen as the intelligent, capable woman you are; and, the success of the Agency you created and have nurtured as though it were your child." He pursed his lips for a long moment, determined to take extreme care with the next part. "That tenacity, as much as anything else, is part of what has kept me spellbound from the day we met. Standing on your own, the Agency, those are _your_ dreams. Just as I will do whatever is necessary to keep you safe because you are at the center of my dreams, you'll do whatever it takes to protect what's at the center of yours…" patting her hand again he stood and bussed her on the top of the head. "I'm going to take my shower now."

Laura watched as he left the room, then lifted a hand to worry her brow. She'd expected an argument of epic proportions when Remington returned home. Not this. Not an apology, acceptance… resignation. A year ago, even six months ago, his assessment would have been dead on: independence, respect, the Agency… those were her dreams. As much as she loved him, looked forward to their time together, the Agency, above nearly all else, would still have come first. Yet despite her recent actions, that had changed somewhere around the time of Daniel's death, when she realized she was on the verge of losing what had become truly most important in her life: Remington and the future they had slowly been building together.

It had only been in the last two months that she'd stopped seeing the disbelief in his eyes, that he'd stopped waiting – although he wouldn't admit it – for her to announce she'd made a mistake, she wasn't ready for this, for marriage. It was, after all, her pattern throughout their relationship, to draw near then back away. While he reveled in every aspect of their marriage, had settled in far easier than she, there were times she saw the fear in his eyes that today would be the day she sent him on his way, as had been done to him time and again as a child, and when the fear was missing in his eyes, she'd see almost… mourning… there instead for what he hadn't yet lost but was certain he would. As he'd begun to truly believe, more and more she saw joy, contentment replacing that fear and mourning in his eyes, the more he'd find himself so relaxed that even while cooking the Gaelic accent that would pepper his words in their most intimate of moments would appear even while discussing the most mundane of topics.

She loved it, loved watching the transition. Loved him more than she had wanted to, had even believed possible.

Now, tonight, as he'd sat next to her on the bed, she'd seen the dull light of mourning in his eyes reappear. Scrunching up her face and shaking her head, her fingers rubbed even more vigorously at her brow. An impetuous moment born of insecurity and this was where they now stood. Remington was a man that believed in deeds, and by manipulating his trust, by breaking her promise to him, she'd drawn a line in the sand with his hopes and dreams on one side of that line, and in his mind, her hopes and dreams on the other.

It was only through deeds that she'd be able to either erase that line, or prove to him that she stood hand-in-hand with him on the same side of it. The Agency was important to her, yes. Her self-sufficiency, how people viewed her was important to her as well, yes. But if her time in Roselli's clutches hadn't done anything else, it had proven to her, once and for all, what was most important in her life – _who_ was most important her life. Not for the most infinitesimal of moments had she thought of the Agency, had she worried that it would appear she was the 'little woman' who needed to be rescued by her husband. Her every thought had been about _Remington_. Was he safe, alive? Would she ever be held by him again? Would she ever lose herself in his taste, his scent, his touch again? Would she be able to show him what he was to her again? If Roselli had, as he'd implied, killed him, how would she move forward without him? Not the Agency. _Her._

He hadn't been wrong. While he'd immersed himself in their marriage _despite_ his fears, she'd held part of herself back because of hers. As she'd told him on their island vacation, she'd never wanted this. The why for that couldn't have been more clear than when Roselli had taunted her with Remington's death. She'd watched all her dreams for the future, shatter around her, because her husband was at the center of all them, be they dreams of home or business. She laughed to herself, remembering how she'd described to him what he was to her when they were in Vail. Now, she mentally revised that list. _Best friend, partner, lover, husband, father of her children one day._ Nearly all the most important roles that people fulfilled in other's lives were fulfilled by him in hers. Instead of terrifying her, as it once would have, it made her feel… fortunate beyond measure.

As the shower turned off in the other room, she vowed to herself that before the holidays were over, Remington Chalmers Steele would know beyond a doubt, that him, their marriage, their future and future family were what mattered most to her in the world. And for the first time in more than thirty-six hours she smiled widely, before nibbling at her lower lip when she realized exactly how, in deeds, she would prove that to him.

Remington caught the last bit of her smile, the nibble upon her lip, when he exited the bathroom. He was all too familiar with what that particular combination meant: Laura had a plan. A plan for what, he had no idea, but whatever it was had left her extremely pleased with herself. Too tired of body after two nights of little sleep and too weary of mind after the last thirty-six hours of emotional turmoil, he set it all aside. It would come out in due time, but for now all he could hope is that it wouldn't put life or limb in peril.

Slipping under the covers of their bed, he stretched out on his back, head pillowed in his hands. For the first time since they'd begun sharing a bed, he didn't extend an immediate invitation for Laura to sprawl across him as she did each evening when they fell asleep. It, of course, didn't escape her notice. Rolling to her side, she wriggled herself a little nearer to him.

"Remington?" Turning onto his side to face her, he crossed his arms, and leveled weary blue eyes upon her.

"Hmm?" Considering even that much a good sign, she inched further towards him, close enough to allow her to thread her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes at her touch, some of the tension leaving his jaw, his shoulders.

"You said what you needed to say. Will you give me the same opportunity?" She stroked her fingers behind his ears, trying to relax him further.

"Mmmm," he hummed, giving his head a slight nod.

"I didn't set out to lie to you, manipulate you, or even to break the promise I'd made, although I can see why you'd think I had. What I did wasn't me making a choice between you, us and the Agency, it was about me. Me, feeling like I wasn't needed at the Agency the way I once was. Me, being bored out of my mind. Me, resenting the restrictions placed on me." Her hand slipped down to soothe over his collarbone, down his arm and back up again. "Since you came home with me from London, can you think of a single time I chose the Agency over you, us? Except for my mistake with Astrid Covington, I can't think of a single time I have. On the other hand, I can think of any number of times I chose _you_ over the Agency." Her hand strayed back up his neck and into his hair, feeling him relax further under her hand, at her words. She remained quiet allowing him time to think about what she'd said. Nearly a minute elapsed before he spoke.

"You're right," he conceded. "Why does it feel as though you have?" Her fingers trekked through his hair again.

"History, maybe? The Agency was a convenient excuse for the better part of three years. Or maybe it was just all the… chaos… of the last year. Reuben, Lydon, Dancer, Wally, Keyes, Candy, the INS… Roselli. How many times did someone or something threaten one of our safety or place what we cared most about at risk of being torn from us? But except for that… time… after the INS arrived we faced all of it together."

"Perhaps," he considered. Laura propped herself up on and arm. She looked down at him and tilted her head as he readjusted himself onto his back.

"Maybe I should tear a page from your own book," she pondered aloud. That earned a quirk of a single brow up at her.

"In what way?" She brushed back that unruly lock of hair off his forehead before cupping his jaw in her hand.

"'Maybe it bears repeating': I choose _you_. I choose the life we're building, _together_. I will _never_ let this go." The toothy smile that lit his face and traveled all the way to his eyes, induce a dimple flashing smile of her own, before she sobered. Relief that they may have truly healed the rift between them swamped her. Shifting to stretch out over top of him, she feathered both hands through his hair, until his eyes met hers questioningly. "I love you, Mr. Steele," she told him fiercely. The emotion in those amber eyes, left his heart flopping on the bed. Wrapping his arms around her, a hand slid up her back to tangle in her hair.

"I hope half as much as I do you, _Mrs._ Steele," he whispered gruffly, cupping the back of her neck and drawing her lips down to his. The kiss lingered before she slipped away to lay her lips next to his ear.

"Make love with me, Rem," she whispered, her breath caressing his ear, making goosebumps break out over his arms.

He didn't need to be asked twice. Mindful of her ankle, with his lips sealed to hers, he rolled them over until she was supine beneath him. He leaned down, holding his lips mere millimeters from hers.

"It would be my absolute please, love," he pledged, before locking his lips over hers again.

They made long, slow love, with an economy of motion, until deep into the night. Afterwards, with Laura draped across Remington's body and his hand buried in her hair, they fell into a sound sleep, confident all was right in their world again.

* * *

The next three days saw a form of order returned to the Steele household. On Sunday afternoon, Laura had Remington retrieve from the Rabbit the bags of decorations she and Joceyln had purchased the day before. While he never spoke a word about the shopping trip being another violation of doctor's orders, the look he gave her had spoken volumes. Not wishing to initiate another argument between them, she held up her hands in a helpless gesture.

"I know, _I know_ ," she proclaimed, with a sigh of exasperation. "I wasn't thinking. I needed to get my mind off everything." She tossed up her hands and let them down. "I'll make you a deal. If you'll just let this go, I'll follow the doctor's orders _to the letter_ until my appointment next Tuesday. No going to the office as we agreed. No running errands. I'll stay home, foot up, and take it easy." Her brows lifted at Remington's guffaw. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, hands on hips, elbows akimbo and eyes narrowed.

"It means, Mrs. Steele, that you are in an inordinately good mood this morning," he stepped to her, touching his lips to hers, "Likely in large part due to last night," he waggled his brows at her, before walking towards the front door. "But I suspect the days of rebellion are far from over," he tossed out over his shoulder, flashing a toothy grin at her. She frowned in his direction, purely on principle, until he walked out the front door, then laughed quietly, admitting to herself that he was more than likely correct in his prediction.

They spent the next hour hunkered over magazines at the dining room table, borrowing from the ideas contained within, altering them to their own instinctive flair for design. Remington produced sketch after sketch, his renderings giving life to their inspirations. Planning completed, Laura reclined on the couch, foot propped, while watching Remington moved from place-to-place in foyer, living room and dining room, decorating according to design. When the bags of decorations were empty, she turned a discerning eye on the rooms, then with a shake of her head declared it was not quite complete. In the end, she gave a protesting husband a playful shove out their front door. Two hours later, after a trip to the nursery and Pier One, he returned and dutifully placed the newly purchased items where instructed then repeated those steps when a large delivery arrived, before…finally… plopping down on the couch across from his wife, where they could turn a critical and appreciative eye on their accomplishment.

The mantles of both fireplaces were topped with garlands of fall leaves and a selection of artificial pumpkins and gourds tucked amongst the leaves. At each end of the mantle, large, orange pillar candles sat atop black holders. On either side of the hearth was an urn, filled with a resplendent collection of sunset lilies, and red and orange tulips, snapdragons, photinia, hypericum, safari sunsets and mums. The foyer table was decorated similarly, with matching urns placed on either side on the floor. The rails of the staircase were threaded with garlands of leaves and flowers, urns set at its base on either side, a collection of gourds carefully arranged at the base of each urn. The dining room table featured a large, dark wicker cornucopia overflowing with gourds and leaves that spilled out of its end. At each side of the cornucopia, a leave and flower surrounded crystal holder with an orange taper candle held in its confines.

"I think your country's iconic first Thanksgiving took less planning than this," Remington observed. Laura grinned at him, eyes sparkling.

"It looks wonderful… welcoming," she praised. "You might have missed your calling, Mr. Steele. You might be well suited for a career in interior design."

"Bite your tongue, Miss Holt. The only hearth I'm interested in decorating is our own," he harrumphed. "Besides, it seems to me my calling found me some four plus years ago." She grinned at him, before turning her head to look towards the terrace.

"Did you order the flowers and urns for the terrace?"

"I did. They'll be delivered in the morning, and for a little extra blunt slipped into the right palm, I've arranged it so you only need to point to where they go."

"Then I'll call the florist in the morning and order the table arrangements. The furniture's still on schedule to be delivered Tuesday?"

Two weeks prior, after months of trying to locate the perfect outdoor dining sets, they'd nearly given up on finding what they'd envisioned when they'd stumbled upon exactly what they'd been looking for in Tarzana of all places. The table featured a temper glass top whose edges and legs were accented with a basket weave rattan, stained a brown so deep it was nearly black and was large enough to accommodate a dozen rattan arm chairs of the same color with cream seat cushions. The set featured the clean lines they both appreciated and added a touch of elegant outdoor dining, while at the same time complementing the stone fireplace and warm woods of the terrace. Inspired, after much debate they decided to donate the recently purchased couch and chairs they'd bought for in front of the fire and ordered a sectional, two chairs with accompanying ottomans and a table of the same design. A second table that would seat four would go on the opposite side of the pool area, and featured an umbrella for shade on bright summer days. Remington had arranged two of Monroe's men to deliver their new, yet now banished, sectional, chairs and table to Frances and Donald's house. The set would provide the Piper family a welcome addition to their deck out back.

"Delivery scheduled for ten sharp Tuesday morning," he confirmed. "Monroe's men will be here at nine to move the living set to Tarzana."

"And I've arranged for Bo, Nicholas and Zachary's high chairs to be delivered Tuesday afternoon." She turned her head back to look at her husband when he let out a less than elegant snort of amusement.

"Bo. Whatever were Bernice and Jason thinking? No wonder they refer to him as 'little man' all the time." She shrugged her shoulders.

"What can I say? Bernice had a thing for _The Dukes of Hazard_ and thought John Schneider a 'true fox,'" she laughed.

"Well, the poor tyke will certainly pay the price for that pedestrian obsession," he replied with a bit of snobbery in his voice. She tossed back her head and laughed, then looked at him, shaking her head, as she grabbed her crutches and stood.

"Somehow I think Bo has a better chance of making it off the playground in one piece than _Humphrey_ does." He rose and followed her towards the kitchen.

"I disagree. Humphrey Bogart is an iconic figure that will still be revered decades from now for his style, his class—"

"Which not a single child will know or care about. All they _will_ care about is the little boy with the absurd name."

"I think if you just took a bit to seriously consider it, you'd agree that the name—"

"As I've said, the only way a child of yours will be saddled with Humphrey is when your _next_ wife allows it." She smirked at the pouty look on his face.

"That's the second time now that you've mention my next wife. Eager to give me the heave-ho already?"

"Only if you plan to hang cinematic names on my children, Mr. Steele," she smiled patting him on his cheek.

"Really, Laura, it would seem a man should be allowed at least equal input on the name of his children," he argued over his shoulder, as he exited the house to preheat the grill. Smiling, she pulled herself up on a barstool to wait for him, resting her crutches against the counter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you already picked three of the four names a male and female child would require?" she continued as though there had been no lull in the conversation. He peeked around the door of the refrigerator, his eyes registering his surprise.

"You honestly approved of them?" She circled a finger on the counter while tilting her head at him.

"I said I did, didn't I? They're solid, strong names with a great deal of meaning behind each." Setting the salmon steaks, squash and zucchini on the counter, he crossed the room to her. Clasping her face in both his hands he leaned down and held his lips firmly against hers, before releasing her.

"Sometimes, love, you shock the bloody hell out of me."

"Good to know," she drawled. "So we're agreed. The decision on the fourth name is mine, with your approval of course." Giving him a waggle of her brows, she pretended to straighten his collar while keeping her eyes locked with his.

"I suppose I have no choice but to say yes as you've conceded on the others," he pointed out, removing a hand from his collar and pressing his lips against the palm. Releasing it he returned to prepping their meal. Under her watchful eye he sliced the squash and zucchini brushing a butter and spice mix over the slices before wrapping it all together in aluminum foil. He disappeared outside, and returned in short order to find her perusing the list in front of her.

"Jocelyn will be by tomorrow morning for the shopping lists. Do we have everything we need for Thanksgiving dinner?"

"We do." Setting her pen down, Laura looked up him with smile.

"I think we might actually pull off our first Thanksgiving without a hitch, Mr. Steele." He gave her a crooked grin.

"Did you ever have a doubt? Now, do you feel like dining inside or out this evening?"

"Out, I think. Is that alright with you?"

"It's perfectly fine with me. I'll just get the salmon on the grill, then retrieve our plates." Picking up the platter of seasoned salmon in one hand and wine in the other, he indicated the terrace doors. "Shall we, love?"

They dined in the soft glow of candlelight, discussing the upcoming holiday. Thanksgiving might well go off without a hitch, but not necessarily without a glitch.

(TBC)

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	12. Chapter 12: It Takes Two

_**This chapter contains NC-17 material. If you are under 18 years of age or uncomfortable with such matter, please continue on to Chapter 13**_

* * *

Monday morning found Remington slapping off the alarm in annoyance. While the day dawned bright and clear, that provided absolutely no motivation for him to extract himself from the comfort of his bed, especially when his wife's lithe little body beckoned him to come closer to ward off the slight chill in the air. Rolling to his side, he tucked himself around her and let her warmth lull him back to sleep. Beside him, Laura rolled her eyes and laughed softly. While there were days that he climbed out of bed as soon as the alarm went off, no matter how grudgingly, she'd found since they'd married there were also days when he needed help to… err… get his blood pumping so to speak.

Wriggling around in his arms to face him, she laughed softly as he simply readjusted, pulling her body close, and nudging open her legs, to tuck one of his legs between them. Nuzzling his chin against the top of her head, once he was comfortable he slipped back into his dreams with a deep sigh.

 _Step one._ She scraped her nails softly down his back from neck to hip, his back arching into her hand even in his sleep.

"Won't work," he mumbled. She laughed softly against his chest.

 _Step two._ Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants to caress the bare skin of a cheek, while her lips trailed across his chest before settling at the base of his throat, her mouth suckling.

"You're not playing fair," he groused in a sleep roughened voice.

"I never do," she sing-songed the response.

 _Step three._ Her hand slipped free of his pajamas to slide over his hip. Cupping his burgeoning erection in her hand, she massaged gently while tilting her head back and covering his lips with hers. With a groan, his arms tightened around her back, and he rolled them over until he reclined atop her, deepening the kiss in the process.

"Good morning, love," he greeted her quietly after ending the kiss.

"Are you ready to get the day started?" she asked, grinning smugly at him. Lifting a single brow, he shifted to her side, deft fingers freeing the buttons of her shirt. Spreading it open, he drew a flat palm down her front from neck to waist.

"I am now," he averred. Dispensing with the niceties, he bent down to circle a nipple with the tip of his tongue, before drawing it into his mouth, tugging gently on it.

"Work, Mr. Steele," she gasped the reminder as his hand slid down to stroke the sensitive skin of her waist.

"It's no work at all, Mrs. Steele, I assure you," he murmured around a mouthful of breast, his hand slipping her panties over her hips. His mouth tugged more firmly on her nipple making her back arch.

"Oh, God," she mumbled. "The office…" she tried reminding him again.

"I'm sure I can quite gladly accommodate that wish next week," he deliberately misunderstood, as he slipped his pajama shirt off her. Locking his lips over hers, he nibbled and teased and titillated, as he pushed to his knees, to shove off his pajama bottoms. Easing back down, he stretched out on his side next to her.

"You're going to be late," she moaned, as his hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her to him until her back lay against his chest. The feeling of his rigid erection pressed against her backside, coupled with a pair dexterous fingers parting the wet flesh between her legs, seeking the nub of nerves that was the center of everything made her arch into him with a little cry of delight.

"I'm sure Mildred will understand, once I explain how you detained me," he teased, breathily, his hand leaving her folds to lift her leg over his hip.

"Oh God," she panted, realizing the position he'd chosen was one guaranteed to bring her numerous, teeth rattling climaxes. "Don't you dare," she nearly growled, as her hand slipped between them to grasp his throbbing shaft. The mouth that was suckling the skin of her collarbone, pulled tightly on the skin, drawing another gasp from her.

"I shouldn't have to deal with Mildred's wrath all day, because my wife's insatiable," he breathed, as his hand returned to her folds. Finding her more than ready, he positioned himself at her entrance and slipped inside of her with ease. Her hips ground hard against him in response to the feeling of him filling her. She was already on the edge, this position designed to give her maximum pleasure.

"No more so than you," she managed to retort, her hand sliding over his hip to massage his firm bottom, urging him to move.

"You feel wonderful, babe," Remington moaned, as he inched out of her then pushed back in. The hand attached to the arm under her claimed a breast kneading it slowly, his other hand teasing her sensitive nub, while he repeated the short, slow strokes four more times. She squirmed against him, circling her hips as best she could in this position, drawing a rumble of laughter from his chest.

"Not this morning, buster," she all but growled, recognizing his teasing for what it was. Sliding her hand between his legs, she grasped his sacs and squeezed gently. His entire body jerked at the touch, forcing him to pull nearly all the way out before, just as helplessly, instinct made him bury himself deeply back inside.

"Impatient this morning, love?" He managed to force the words past his lips, it taking every ounce of his concentration to still his body. He swallowed hard. The need to pound into her hard and fast was overwhelming as he fought for control. She clenched her teeth as she panted, his cessation of movement leaving her dangling on the edge of the most sought after cliff. Desperate, Laura pulled out the big guns. Her hand slipped out from between their bodies to seek out the side of his head.

"Rem?" she whispered as her fingers raked through his hair.

"Yes, love?" he grinned, knowing he was making her crazy. Fingers continued to play in his hair, as she nuzzled her cheek against the side of his head.

"I love you, sweetheart." His entire body quaked at her words before he unleashed a storm on her body. Fingers teased a nipple, his other fingers a nub. His mouth found that place where neck meets shoulder and began to suckle with urgency. His hips rocked back then forward, faster with each stroke. In less than a minute, the teeth jarring climax she'd been expecting rolled through her body.

"M'fhíorghrá," he mumbled against her neck, as he felt her entire body quiver against him, around him.

Without disconnecting their bodies, he rolled them until she lay on her stomach. Snatching a pillow, he maneuvered it under her hips, providing the angle she would need. His fingers threaded with hers as he pushed up on his elbows, driving hard and fast in and out of her, shoving her back up that precipice again before her body had even stopped tremoring from the last orgasm.

"Rem," she gasped. Her fingers clenched his while she circled her hips, drawing a deep, guttural groan from his throat. His mouth found her bare shoulders, nibbling and suckling the skin there. She'd be marked, several places, he knew, but didn't care. She was his and the proof would lie there amongst the freckles he adored.

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, Laura. Mo chuid den tsaol," he mumbled against her skin, between the kisses he laid down. "Babe," he muttered, as he felt her tensing against him, felt that beautiful little bottom of hers twitching against his abdomen.

"Rem," she murmured in reply, tilting her hips a little more, allowing him to pierce her to the core. He dug a knee into the bed and changed the angle slightly, driving even harder into her. She knew she would be sore for a while but didn't care. Her focus was solely on pulling him over the edge with her this time. When he ducked down to brace his forehead on her shoulder and his strokes shortened she knew he was as close as she. Releasing his hand, she reached up and buried her fingers in his hair and for the first time ever, spoke to him in his native tongue. "Tá tú grá mo chroí, Remington," she whispered breathily. His entire body stilled then trembled at hearing the words spoken by the lilting voice he so adored.

"Tá tú an grá i mo shaol, Laura," he murmured achingly against her shoulder, before, with final thrust he groaned her name. She babbled his as he took her over the edge of bliss with him.

After, Laura's hand caressed Remington's head, offering the connection he needed in order to find his balance again. Carefully, he shifted, only to lie between her legs once more when she turned to her back. His lips sought and found hers, and he tried to tell her with his kisses and touches what her words had meant to him. He hadn't needed to. She'd known before she'd spoken what it would do to his gentle heart. The strain between them only two short days before coupled with his reluctance to leave her had provided the impetus she'd needed to say the words she'd been trying on her tongue for weeks. With a smile she pressed her lips to his neck, holding them there for several seconds, then ruffed his hair with his hand, intentionally lightening the mood.

"Awake now?" She smirked and lifted her brows at him teasingly. Leaning back, he flashed a toothy smile at her.

"Delightfully so."

"Then as lovely as this interlude was, big guy," she informed him, giving his shoulders a firm shove, "It's time for _you_ to shower and get to work."

"Care to join me?"

"Oh, ho. We both know how that would end. Off with you," she ordered, giving him another playful shove. She rolled to her side to watch appreciatively as he climbed from their bed and walked to the bathroom. Flopping onto her back, she grinned then nibbled at her bottom lip. _Most definitely a delicious way to wake_ , she silently agreed with him.

When Laura heard the shower turn off and watched as Remington, towel slung around his hips, walked into their closet, she sat up and after pulling on her robe, took to her feet with the aid of her crutches, then exchanged places with him in the shower. By the time she stepped out and wrapped towel around her, he was dressed, groomed and ready to walk out the door. She'd once imagined that he would take as long as she to prepare for the day, and it still amazed her that he could be from shower door to front door in under ten minutes. She laughed aloud as a hand fisted around her towel and Remington drew her near for a steamy little kiss.

"I'll be back to take you down in just a few minutes, love," he told her, giving her fanny a few firm little pats.

Rubbing a towel over her hair, Laura pursed her lips and decided to leave it curl naturally for the day given she had no professional obligations scheduled. Of course, the fact that her husband was left mesmerized when she allowed her natural curl to go free was only a bonus. Giving her teeth a quick scrubbing, she popped back her birth control pill then applied a light layer of makeup. In the closet, she opted for a pair of slacks and lightweight sweater, attire that would work suitably for the deliveries and phone calls she had to make.

As her hand slid a snow-white sweater off the hanger, it stilled when her thoughts suddenly clicked on a detail previously overlooked. Her mind reeled as she returned to the bathroom. Leaning on a single crutch, she stared at the bathroom counter for more than a minute as her fingers thrummed on its surface. Tentatively, she reached for the plastic case and opened it. _Green. Two days of green missing._ Snapping the case close, she staggered backwards two paces on wobbly knees and sat down hard on the toilet.

 _I'm late._

"An odd place to be waiting on me, Mrs. Steele," Remington laughed, entering the bathroom. "Are you ready to go downstairs?" Shaking off her shock and storing the concern firmly in the back of her mind for now, she looked up at him and smiled.

"As soon as I put on shoes, I will be."

A quick trip to the closet, a lift down the stairs, and the couple shared a brief cup of tea together, then Remington departed for the office for the day.

* * *

The nursery arrived on time and in short order, with a minimum of direction, a dozen urns filled with flowers, the duplicate of those inside the house, were positioned on the terrace, on either side of the of the fireplace, and in strategic locations around the pool. After the deliverymen departed, Laura went inside to place the calls she and Remington had discussed. Jocelyn happily agreed to play gopher, picking up the numerous items on the list she'd be provided as well as the parcel waiting to be picked up at Jansen's Photography and Framing. A call to the florists guaranteed the centerpieces for the dining tables would be delivered Wednesday afternoon. A thought struck her as she prepared to end the call.

"Would you, by chance, know the meaning behind a tulip?" she asked the florist. The woman on the other line laughed merrily.

"Of course. The tulip is said to represent 'the perfect love'." Laura hung up the phone, smiling and shaking her head. _That man. What am I going to do with him?_

An eager Jocelyn arrived at the house twenty minutes later. With lists in hand she bid Laura her adieu's promising to return as soon as she could. At odd ends until Jocelyn returned, Laura slung the strap to her briefcase over her shoulder, dropping it on the dining table. Two trips to the kitchen netted her a wine glass and a bottle of wine. Sitting down, she uncorked then tipped the bottle, before stopping short of allowing it to pour.

 _I'm late,_ the thought came to her again. The idea was nothing short of surreal. A mental inventory confirmed there was not a single instance she could recall in the last month when she had missed a pill. It was habit. Shower, hair dried, teeth brushed, pill taken, makeup applied and, finally, get dressed for the day ahead. In seven months, she'd only missed taking a pill when they'd been unavailable after her kidnapping. Remington had been the guard-at-the-gate in the days after, despite her attempts to lure him into a round of love making, steadfastly refusing her advances not willing to risk an unplanned pregnancy. Only when the coast was clear and she was back on the pill, did they resume their physical relationship.

How?!

Her eyes widened and she groaned aloud. _How will I tell him? Remember how you were late to work this morning? Well I realized right after you left that I'm late too! Oh, God._ She dropped her head into her hands.

Abruptly, she snatched up her crutches and hauled herself up off her chair. In the living room, she sat down on the couch, then retrieved her address book out of the side table. Picking up the phone, she dialed.

"Good Morning, this is Laura Holt. I need to make an appointment with Dr. Miller… Reason for the visit? Um, I think there's a possibility I may be pregnant… Two days… _Two weeks?!_ You have _got_ to be _kidding me_. _Why_?... Alright, I understand… December eighth at nine o'clock. I'll see you then."

Setting down the phone a little more vigorously than needed, she leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling, pinching the bridge of her nose. _Well_ , she thought to herself, _it took the two of us to put us in this position. I'll be damned if I'm going to be the only one waiting on pins and needles!_ With that thought in mind, she picked up the phone and dialed the Agency.

"Remington Steele Agency. Mildred Krebs speaking. How many I help you?"

"Mildred, what does Mr. Steele have on his schedule for this afternoon?" she asked without preamble.

"Bupkis. A three-thirty appointment with Monroe to go over the security layout there. That's it! People are getting ready for Thanksgiving, you know," Mildred answered.

"I do. Block out his schedule from now until that appointment and tell him I need him to come home for lunch," she directed.

"Will do."

"Oh, and Mildred, there's a couple more things we need to discuss…" She filled Mildred in then disconnected the line after they said their goodbyes.

In his office, Remington sat at his desk with a set of blue prints in front of him, pencil in hand, as he filled in the details of the current security system at the Gallery. Throughout the morning he'd had trouble keeping his mind on business. Several times, he's found himself mentally reviewing the Thanksgiving menu, then when he'd force his thoughts back to business, he'd discover he'd leaned back in his chair as he reminisced about their interlude that morning and the words Laura had spoken. Gaelic. He laughed softly to himself. He should have known she'd pay close enough to the words he'd speak as they made love and would begin to translate their meaning on her own. This _was_ Laura after all. But to hear her speak the words? _Ah, truly the spice of life it is._ With a sigh, he bent back over the desk and returned to work.

He glanced up when Mildred rapped twice on the door then entered immediately.

"Boss, Mrs. Steele called. Asked that I tell you she was expecting you at home… pronto."

Dropping the pencil on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. "Did she say why?"

"Not a word, 'though she sounded… irritated. What've you done this time, Chief." His brows furrowed at the information and the question.

"Nothing that I'm aware of. Irritated you say?" he verified, standing and rolling up the blueprints and his sketches. Mildred leveled a frown on his, and placed a fist on a cocked hip while wagging a finger at him.

"Uh-huh. You don't seem very worried if you ask me." Dropping the papers in a tube, he capped it while rounding the desk then bussed Mildred on the cheek.

"Because I'm not. _I've not done anything_. It's been our Miss Holt in the hot seat of late," he reminded her, flashing his pearly whites at her.

"I hope for your sake you're right, because I'm telling you, Boss, the way Mrs. Steele sounded, you're headed to the hot seat."

"Well, then, I'll find out shortly, won't I now?" On that note, and with a kiss off the tips of his fingers tossed her way, he departed the office as Mildred stood shaking her head behind him.

* * *

Remington tossed his keys on the credenza and with tube of schematics in hand, turned right into the living room. Finding it empty, he crossed living room, tossing the tube on a nearby chair, then dining room, prepared to see if his wife was waiting his arrival on the terrace. As he approached the French doors, movement to the left caught his eyes.

"Would you mind helping with these?" Laura asked, indicating the cup of coffee for her and tea for him that she'd prepared.

"Not at all," he agreed. Stealing a quick kiss from her lips which did little to relieve the tension around her eyes, he picked up her coffee mug and his cup and saucer. "Where to?"

"The living room's fine," was her reply.

"Mildred is under the impression from your conversation with her, that I've found myself in a bit of hot water. Is she correct?" he inquired, as he placed the beverages on the coffee table, then waited as she partially reclined on the couch. Propping up her foot with a pillow, he sat, then picked up the uninjured foot and began to massage.

"No, not at all. At least not in the way she means," she answered pensively.

"But in some manner I am?" He noted the quick twitch of Laura's brow, which she reached up to smooth out with her fingers.

"I don't know, only you can answer that," she told him honestly, receiving a raised brow in response.

"Oh?"

"I'm late," she blurted out, tossing up her hands. Remington knew what she meant, having realized it quite on his own that morning during their delectable little romp, but couldn't resist teasing her.

"I wasn't aware you had an appointment today," he commented, maintaining a straight face.

"I don't," she replied, with a slight frown.

"Forgive me, but how can you be late for an appointment you don't have?" He knew he was pushing his luck but couldn't help himself.

" _I'm late, Mr. Steele,"_ she reiterated, tossing up her hands again. "Not late for an appointment. As in, I may be pregnant."

"Mmm. I know." She stared at him as though he'd grown two new heads.

"You know?" He fought the urge to laugh, wagering it would end in an explosion the likes of which he'd prefer to avoid.

"Laura, even I'm capable of understanding every fourth Sunday our…" he waggled his brows at her "…amorous antics will take a hiatus for several days." He leveled his eyes on her. "Which, I might add, have remained quite… active… the last two days." Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed them with her hands.

"You're not upset?" Nerves began to set in, as he questioned if he'd had the appropriate response or had mistepped in some way.

"Ah… should I be?" he asked, unconsciously tugging at his ear.

"No," she answered slowly, then immediately reversed course. "Yes! Just last month you made it very clear that you were unwilling to risk a pregnancy. So, yes! You should be upset." She pulled her foot out of his hand to stand and pace, becoming all the more frustrated when she recalled such an act was impossible and pacing on crutches simply didn't have the same adrenaline-burning effect. "We're just starting to figure out how to be married and still are stumbling regularly in that regard," she gesticulated wildly. "You weren't wrong. We're not ready for this!" His finger scratched at the side of his nose as he considered his words carefully before speaking.

"I didn't… thwart… your efforts because of myself, but for you," he corrected. Her eyes widened, and regarded him as if his head had now suddenly come resemble the giant bass of past nightmares.

"What does that mean?" she asked, voice raising an octave. He grimaced and reached for the back of his neck to rub it. There was no questioning he'd stepped into it this time. He blew out a frustrated breath.

"How have you phrased it many a time now? When it comes to our relationship you are constantly playing 'catch up'? Eh?" he tried again. This time she did take to her feet with the aid of her crutches, moving several paces from the couch then turning to face him.

"Are you saying you're ready for this?!" she demanded to know in disbelief. Now he stood to pace between dining room and kitchen, his own emotions rising.

"What do you want me to say, Laura? That I thought we'd have more time to just enjoy one another before bringing a baby into the equation. Well, I did. That I'd be disappointed because of that if you were carrying our child? I _can't_ do that. That the idea of becoming a father terrifies me? _Of course_ it does! I've not exactly had a stellar role model of what a father should be except for the short time I spent with Marcos and Elena," he pointed out, gesturing with his hands. "But do I believe I'm ready? Is anyone ever truly ready? I doubt it. Would I be elated if you were pregnant?" Mimicking her earlier movement, he threw his hands up. "Yes, I would! I will not spend a single moment regretting any child that is born to us, no matter if it were by design or by surprise!"

Leaning heavily on her crutches, Laura looked up at the ceiling and pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. His reaction was not at all what she'd been expecting. She'd expected him to be blindsided, panicked… frantic even. Then it would be incumbent on her to be the voice of rationality, the calm one, the one in control. Playing the role that was familiar, comforting. But if he didn't follow script, and clearly he wasn't, then where did that leave her?

Remington perched a hip on the back of the couch watching her. This… _This_ … was precisely what he'd been trying to avoid when he'd called a hiatus to their physical relationship in those days after she'd been freed from Roselli. It was not out concern for his reaction to an unexpected pregnancy but hers. Now, he shared with her exactly that.

"Laura, I didn't call a halt to our lovemaking until it was… safe… for me, but yourself. I knew you'd need to work things through in your mind, make lists, feel you had it all planned out, before you'd be prepared to have a child—"

"Yes! I would have liked to plan it!" she jumped in, interrupting. "I would have liked for at least _this_ , the choice of _when,_ to be in our control, unlike everything else," she lamented.

"Control is an illusion love. None of us ever truly have control of _anything_. Do you think Sherry and Murphy anticipated having twins? They'd planned for a child, much like you'd like to do, and in the end, kismet had its own ideas by bestowing twins upon them. Did Donald and Frances plan Laurie Beth? We both know that wasn't the case, but do they regret her arrival? Not for a moment. For that matter, when you agreed to provide security for the Royal Lavulite and when I made plans to relieve you of it, could either of us have predicted what we have," he waved his hand around the room, "would be result of that?" He stood and walked to her. Taking her face in his hands, he looked into her eyes. "I know I have not a single regret that my plans didn't work out as I'd intended. Can you say the same?" She puffed out a breath.

"You know I can. But this is child, _a baby_ , we're talking about," and she was off on her crutches again. "We don't get a second, third and fourth chance like we did for you and I. We get one chance. _One_ chance to get it right. _One_ chance to get one of the _most important_ things we'll ever do together right." She flopped down on the couch, laying her crutches on the floor. "The only thing I know about being a mother is what I learned from Mother _not_ to do. I needed time to figure it out," she said dejectedly.

Remington crossed the room and sat beside her. He closed his eyes for a long minute, trying to find the words she needed. Reaching for her hand, hand tangled his fingers with hers, then placed his other hand over top their joined hands, patting them.

"Love, you had four years to figure out whether or not to trust me with your heart. At the end of the day it took the INS, a fake wedding, Daniel dying and a leap of faith for you to trust this is what we were always meant to be. I think…" he paused, searching for the words, "…I think having children, planned or not, is always just that: a leap of faith you'll find your way." With a single finger under her chin, he urged her to look at him. "If you _are_ with child, we'll find our way together, eh?" Laura let out a deep breath and nodded. Wrapping his arm around her, Remington leaned back and took her with him. After another sigh, she relaxed against his shoulder.

"I don't get it. You. Mr. 'I've avoided commitment most of my life like the proverbial plague,' why doesn't this scare the hell out of you?" He fingered a strand of hair that hung in her face, then tucked it behind her ear, chuckling softly.

"Just because I'm prepared to go all in doesn't mean I'm not worried the cards I'm holding may not be enough to take the hand, Laura. I'm simply willing to bet on us, as history has shown we win when it's most important." She shifted, getting more comfortable against him.

"I don't want to be my mother," she said quietly.

"And because you don't want to be, _you won't_. It would seem to me you're already a step ahead in the parenting game as you know don't want to make any child to feel…" he struggled for the word.

"Inadequate. Inferior. Incapable," she ruefully provided.

"All of which we know you're not," he pointed out. Lifting his arm he glanced at his watch, a move not lost on Laura.

"When are you meeting Monroe?"

"I've just enough time to make us a bite to eat, if you don't mind going over the plans for the Gallery with me while we dine." Standing, he handed her the crutches then helped her to her feet.

"If you'll bring the plans to the dining room table, I'll start going over them while you make lunch," she offered. Grabbing the tube off out of the chair where he'd tossed them, he did as asked.

"There's something on the left side of the Gallery that's not quite right, although I can't seem to put my finger on it, if you wouldn't mind starting there," he requested. While Remington was hands down the security expert, Laura had a keen eye for picking up on the little nuances that would bother him from time-to-time. To that end, she settled in at the kitchen table with the plans while he retired to the kitchen to prepare their lunch. Lunchtime focused not on the matter which called him home, but comfortably on business matters, although the former would continue to be a major topic of conversation between them in the days to come.


	13. Chapter 13: Past Memorialized

On Tuesday, as scheduled, Monroe's men picked up their new-old outdoor furniture, departing for Tarzana only minutes before the furniture delivery arrived. Laura directed where each new piece would be set up, and by noon she looked with a smile of approval at their backyard entertainment area. All sleek lines with warm colors and cool accents, it was now an excellent complement to the interior of their home. When the three, solid walnut high chairs, made to be positioned directly against the table, arrived, the dining space outdoor would now comfortably seat nineteen, although they were only expecting thirteen plus themselves for the upcoming dinner on Thursday.

With the outside situated, she turned her attention to the surprise she'd been covertly planning for Remington over the last several weeks. Given the limitations created by her crutches, getting everything done on her own would be challenging, but she was determined to have the task completed before he arrived home. Two and a half hours later, she sank back on the couch, surveying her handiwork, inordinately pleased with how it had turned out. She could only hope that her husband would react to it as she hoped he would.

This morning, in accordance with her vow to prove to her Mr. Steele that she was a vested in this marriage as he, she had called Claude at L'Ornate. In an hour, dinner would arrive from L'Ornate and Claude had assured her the waiter delivering it would assist her in setting up a small dining area for two in front of the fire in the living room. Remington should arrive within a half hour of that. Turning her head, she looked at the stairs with a bit of dread. She'd already made the trip up and down those stairs once, but thankfully she'd not be carrying anything this time around. The idea of anyone seeing her wiggle her way up on her bottom, dragging box and crutches up each step at the same time, was enough to bring a flush of humiliation to her face. With a sigh of resignation, and a doleful wish they had remained at Remington's condo until she could navigate the stairs with ease, she pressed upwards on her crutches then approached the stairs.

Fifty minutes later, she made what she hoped would be her final descent down the stairs. She'd kept her attire semi-casual, but guaranteed to kick her husband's pulse rate up a few notches: a long sleeved, backless, black dress that clung to her curves while the skirt stopped a mid-thigh; black stockings with black lace hem, a nod to his erotic fascination with the garment; and only a scant pair of black panties underneath. Allowing her curls to riot, she'd clipped back the front in a black rhinestone barrette. The earrings he'd bought her in New York hung from her ears and the heart locket he'd gifted her with years before dangled from her neck. She longed to slip on a pair of black stilettos to complete the outfit, but since that was not in the cards had slipped on a single black, flat.

Leaning her bottom against the arm rest of a chair, Laura closed her eyes while she pressed a hand to her stomach. She'd shoved thoughts of pregnancy to the back of her mind throughout the day, but as she'd dressed had been unable to keep them at bay. The sleek little outfit she was wearing wouldn't fit her much longer… none of her clothes would. It was only a reminder of how many things would change in the months to come, how many things that would _have_ to change. Preparing the bedroom she'd set aside for 'one day' as a nursery 'now'. Car seats to purchase… Oh my God, what exactly did a baby need for day-to-day life? Baby clothes, diapers, bibs… what else? A daycare would be needed which only begged the question: how would this change her life in terms of work. Remington was protective by nature. With her carrying his child what kind of limitations would he impose upon her? And after the baby was born? She couldn't help but remember his words last winter.

" _ **Supposing you had children? Supposing. Would you intend to continue working? Or would you feed the little tykes breakfast in the morning and then rush off to a nice, juicy murder? I mean, would you call them up at school and apologize because you couldn't pick them up because you were being held hostage."**_ __

He'd wanted to know, then, if she planned to remain a detective the rest of her life. She'd told him she didn't know. But here and now she did know: She loved every part of her life. She had a job she both loved and excelled at; a husband that she loved more than she'd wanted to, or even thought possible. She wanted neither of those things to change. Would grasping another part of the dream – children, a family – mean she'd have to give up something else she loved? The truth was, it terrified her to think it might be expected she do just that.

The doorbell sounded, forcing Laura to set aside her thoughts for the second time on the day. Sebastien, one of her favorite young waiters from L'Ornate, as promised, helped Laura set up seating for two in front of the fire. White table cloth spread over the table, candles set near an edge, two services of their wedding china laid out, along with silver and champagne flutes, and the scene was set. She tipped Sebastien nicely as he departed, after setting their meals in the stove to keep warm.

Ten minutes later, candles on the table lit, fire lit, lights dimmed and terrace doors swung open wide, the scene was set, just in time for Remington to walk through the front door. The Agency had been blessedly slow, with Mildred and he both focusing on wrapping up what cases and files they could before they holiday. The doors closed officially at five o'clock for the holiday and would not reopen until Monday morning, which had taken considerable convincing on his part. Laura had at first been resistant, and was only swayed when he pointed out he would be cooking for fifteen and that could not be accomplished in a single morning and afternoon.

Dropping his keys on the credenza in the foyer, he turned towards the living room then stopped, a smile lighting his face. Laura stood propped on her crutches in the doorway.

"What do we have here?" Stepping to her, he cupped her neck and bending down sampled the taste of her lips. Smacking his lips together, he hummed while giving her a little leer. "'That's, uh, quite a dress you almost have on,' love," he told her appreciatively.

"You'll have to do better than that if you plan to trip me up, Mr. Steele," she chastised him playfully, before he gave her a second, lusty little kiss. She blinked her eyes a couple time, trying to regain train of thought. " _The African Queen_ , Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn, United Artists, 1951." He gave her a smile of approval with raised brows.

"Very good love." He peeked around her shoulder at the table for two. "What do we have here?" he asked again.

"Just a small celebration," she answered, moving aside for him to enter the room, "in honor of our fifth month anniversary." She left him speechless for long moment. It was the first time that it was she who sought out, with purpose, to celebrate the remembrance of their Greek wedding. Words failed him, so he tipped his head, sniffing at the air. "You cooked?" he asked.

"Don't worry, Mr. Steele, I'm not trying to get rid of you… yet," she teased. "Sebastien just left a few moments ago. I asked Claude to have the chef prepare a special order of Filet Mignon au Poivre with parsnip and potato puree, and mushroom ragout. If you wouldn't mind retrieving it from the oven?"

"Of course. And should I expect a special dessert as well? Preferably something in the chocolate family with which to seduce my wife?" he asked over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen to do as requested. Seating herself and crossing her legs, she intentionally allowed her skirt to clear the top of a stocking.

"Oh," she drawled, "dessert is definitely on the menu." He looked at her as he turned into the kitchen, then sputtered to a stop, his eyes zeroing in on the bare skin between dress and stocking, before skimming the length of that stockinged leg to the ankle. He was tempted to cross the room, knock aside the table and take his wife then and there when she trekked a single finger from knee to stocking top, pausing to toy with the lace. As it was, he could only watch, transfixed, swallowing hard as his body raged to life.

"I suppose we have to eat first?" he asked with no little regret. She smirked at him and nodded, laughing when he gave her the look a toddler might give when his favorite toy was withheld until after a meal.

"Afraid so, big guy. But the sooner we begin…"

"No more needs to be said, Mrs. Steele."

Setting their meals on the table, Remington lifted the champagne bottle from the bucket. Rather than opening it, however, he returned to the kitchen, drawing a curious look from Laura. When he returned with two glasses of ice water, she looked at him questioningly.

"Ah… just in case." He looked pointedly at her.

Silence, thick and uncomfortable, stretched between the couple for several minutes. Taking a bite of the magnificently prepared filet, he studied her while he chewed. He knew she was having difficulty adjusting to the idea she might be pregnant, but it had begun to irritate him. When she wasn't shoving the thought into the furthest recesses of her mind as though the possibility didn't exist, she was moody and shutting herself off from him. Eyes that refused to meet his, the fidgeting with her food, all bespoke that at the moment she was doing the latter. Dropping his fork on his plate, the clattering drawing her eyes to him in surprise, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.

"Alright, Laura, let's have it. Precisely what has suddenly cast a blight over this ... pfftttt… _celebration_?" he demanded, a sarcastic edge lighting his voice on the last word. Her eyes met his, and held as she slowly set her own fork down.

"Alright. For starters, _if I am_ pregnant, how do you view my life from here forward?" Bewildered by the question, his brows furrowed.

"Whatever do you mean, how do I view your life?" Even as he asked the question, he suspected her answer would irritate him in the extreme but instead found himself trying very hard to present the serious façade she'd expect in response to her concerns.

"My job. Will you expect me to quit and stay home with our child? If I continue to work, are you going expect me to sit at my desk day in and day out so I don't have to apologize to our child for not picking he or she up at school because I've been held hostage, as you once put it? What kind of limits are you going to impose on me?" The more she spoke, the more… amused… he became. Picking back up his fork, he enjoyed another piece of his filet.

"I seem to recall a conversation after the Holliday case that would be pertinent here, eh?" Leaning over his plate for another bite, he looked up at her through his lashes.

" _ **Why didn't you pull me aside and shake me?"**_

" _ **Ho, would it have done any good?"**_

She gave a sharp, quiet laugh as she recalled the conversation and relaxed visibly.

"You ask as though I've ever had any form of control over you or even sought to," he admonished lightly.

"But we're married now…"

"That doesn't change who we are, what we are. I could ask the same of you. After our child is born, will you expect me to spend all my days at the office, arriving at eight each day, not departing until six then bringing home work each evening?" She frowned at him.

"Of course not, you'd be miserable. I learned a long time ago that I'll get a lot more out of you if I leave you to your own devices."

"Then why would you expect any less of me?" He sighed, setting down his fork again and reaching for her hand. "The only thing I've ever asked of you is that you not take unnecessary risks without me there to watch your back. I'd hope, should you be with child, you'd remember that now your decisions might place more than just yourself at risk."

"And my role at the Agency?"

"Altered only in so much as you wish it to be." He let out a frustrated breath. "Laura, there has never been anything whatsoever conventional about the two of us since the day we met. Not how we met, our partnership, our romance, even our marriage. I don't suddenly expect us to become the quintessential American family where Mummy stays home with the kiddies while Daddy goes off to work. I fully expect, as I've expressed previously, that if anything we'll defy convention and create a life that works best for ourselves as well as any children we may have." Her mood suddenly improved dramatically due to both his words and the sincerity of them. Flashing a dimple at him, she raised her brows playfully as the sparkle returned to her eyes.

"I can see that of us," she approved.

"What else?" he probed, returning to his meal again, watching as she did the same.

"The nursery. When I set the bedroom aside upstairs, it was a concept, now that it's a possibility I've realized I have no idea what an infant needs. A crib, changing table, both are givens. A car seat for the car. But what else? It's all a bit… daunting."

"I'm sure Frances and your mother will have boundless advice on the matter," he noted wryly. Her eyes widened in horror and she set her fork back down again.

"Promise me, Remington…" He did a double take, stopping his fork midway to his mouth, then after placing the morsel of filet in his mouth, let his hand rest on the table.

"Promise you what?" he asked around the food.

"You won't breathe a word of this to them. Not until we know for certain… and for as long as possible after, if I am" she mumbled the last under her breath, leaving him chuckling quiet.

"I give you my word," he answered simply. She rolled her eyes at the amused grin lifting his lips. Pursing her lips, she shot him a sly little glance, that worried him enough his smile faded and he shifted in his seat.

"I bet your siblings would be _thrilled_ to know you may be a father sooner than planned." She smirked as he sat up straight in his chair.

"Lau-ra," he growled warningly.

"Especially Melina. She might even want to come for a long visit. To be…" she flicked her wrist in his direction "…a support… to you in the months leading up to the birth." she pressed. "And Christos? I imagine there will be numerous calls from him, giving you brotherly advice…"

"Your word, Laura. Elsewise, I may feel the need to introduce Frances and Melina," he threatened, the smug look now on his face, the alarm on hers.

"Remington Chalmers Steele!" _Damn. Damn, damn, damn and double damn,_ she bemoaned as she watched his face light up at her use of his full name. _When will I learn that doesn't work with him?_ she silently berated herself then tried again. " _Mr. Steele_! You _wouldn't dare_!" Smile still on his face, he casually lifted the last bit of his dinner to his mouth while holding her eyes with his.

"Wouldn't I now, _Mrs. Steele_?" he asked, leaning back and taking a drink of water, his eyes never leaving hers. She held up her hands in defeat and laughed.

"Alright, I know when I've lost. You have my word."

"Good enough," he nodded. "Now, what other concerns do you have?" She pursed her lips and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. With a shrug, she dropped her eyes to look at him.

"None that come to mind." She was surprised to find it was true, at least for now.

"Excellent. Then perhaps we can resume our little… celebration… wasn't it?" Remington asked, standing and clearing their plates. Quickly brushing his lips across her brow, he moved to the kitchen to clean up. Laura followed behind on her crutches and with his assistance, perched on the counter next to the sink so she could dry after he washed and rinsed.

The kitchen was cleaned and restored in quick order. As soon as the final plate was returned to its cabinet, he turned his attention to her. A hand slid up each of her outer thighs, slipping beneath the skirt to toy with the lace edge of her stockings. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drew his head down and kissed him, lingering long enough to hint at her ardor for him.

"Not quite yet," she told him, when their lips parted, shivering at the touch of his hands toying with her backside. "Can you help me down? I have a… gift… of a sort for you." Humming in disappointment, he assisted her down, balancing her until she had the crutches underneath of her, then followed in her wake to the living room. He eyed her speculatively as she sat in an arm chair near the fireplace and laid her crutches on the floor. "I made some additions to our Thanksgiving decorations this afternoon," she hinted.

Remington turned automatically to the fireplace, the first place in the house they'd completed decorating. Spying a pair of frames sitting on either end of the mantle, he approached the right side first. His hand reached towards the closest, then turning to look at her over his shoulder, his surprise reflected on his face, he picked up the second picture, swiping his thumb across the image almost reverently.

"Is this…" he had to stop to clear an emotion roughened voice, as what she'd done began to sink in.

"It is," she nodded. "At around two weeks old, like your own," she nodded solemnly to the picture that sat nearby the one he was now holding.

"So small… and not a hair on your head," he mumbled with a quiet laugh. Setting the picture down, he moved to the other end of the fireplace. There he was at three, when he'd been known as Aiden and beside him, a mop topped little lass with freckles dotting nose and cheeks.

"My, my, weel ye look at all those curls," he murmured to himself, as he stroked a finger over them as if he could feel the silk of those tresses against his skin. He looked over his shoulder at her again, and found her still nodding her head as she bit her lip trying not to smile. It was only then he realized his accent had slipped.

"Me, when I was three," she confirmed, head tilted as she watched his eyes glide towards the piano surveying the four frames that had appeared there.

He touched the frame holding the photo of him playing soccer, laughed as he held the picture depicting eleven-year-old Laura playing baseball. He stilled, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, simply staring at the next set of pictures. She'd been prepared for his reaction, anticipating it even. Standing, she made her way to his side, then leaning her crutches against the piano, wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head between his shoulders. One of his hands found hers, tangling their fingers together and the other reached for the picture of him, sitting amongst the ruins sketching.

"How?" It was the only word he could manage at this juncture.

"Elena. It, along with a couple of others I hadn't seen before," she forewarned, "was sent over with the copies I'd asked for." She paused, a little emotional herself at the memory of the note from Elena and Marcos. "Her note said Marcos and she had kept this picture on display in their bedroom for the last two decades." She took a deep breath, warding off the moisture threatening in her eyes, before speaking in a tremulous voice. "They loved you, Remington. All those years while you were alone, fighting for survival on the streets, they were loving you and waiting for you to come home." It wasn't the first time she'd uttered similar words, but the thought still made her heart ache. She felt his slow nod, more than saw it.

"Hope," he muttered, then clearing his throat spoke slowly, quietly. "When I sat amongst the ruins drawing, I was always filled with such… hope. Hope I'd finally found the home where I belonged, that I'd grow up on the island living the incredible life I had been gifted with thus far. But…" he trailed off.

"The explosion," she filled in. He nodded again.

"The explosion. Marcos already looking towards the future and all its possibilities, while I realized I would be little more than a stone weighing them down. Another mouth to feed, another body to clothe." Shaking off the melancholy and stowing it firmly in the past where it belonged, he focused on the picture of her, around the same age, sitting at a piano playing. "Your grandmother's?" he questioned.

"Yes, the same one this piano replaced." Holding her arm, he carefully turned to face her, wrapping her in his arms and tugging her close. Her fingers raked through his hair, comforting as he sought his balance. "There's a certain irony in the fact we both lost our homes at one point in our lives due to an explosion, eh?" She pressed her lips to his neck and held them there, having just been thinking similar thoughts. With a buss to the top of her head, he released her and helped her sit down on the piano bench. His eyes perused the room.

"Dining room mantle," Laura suggested. Remington moved to where she directed. Displayed there, his twelfth birthday, the picture of he and Melina building a sandcastle and the pictures of the Adrokus boys proudly displaying the fish they'd caught. As in the living room, she'd echoed those pictures with ones from her own childhood: Her twelfth birthday, the older Frances building a sandcastle with the younger Laura, and Laura fishing off a pier.

The display on the credenza might have been simpler in terms of number of pictures but what those pictures were of made it more poignant than the ones before. A photograph from their wedding in Greece, they holding hands and facing one another, and on the left side of that the picture of him as a teen and on the either side her at around the same age. He lifted the picture of her and brought it close. Clearly a candid shot, someone had caught her lost in thought, eyes sparkling, a smile twitching at her lips, her long, curly hair cascading freely over her shoulders and midway down her back. Despite the photograph being black and white, he could clearly see the freckles dancing across her face and neck. He looked over his shoulder at her, surprised to find she had retrieved her crutches and was standing behind him.

"Unlike you, love, I can tell you with absolute certainty, if I had known you then, I would have done whatever it required to make you mine," he commented, reminding of her reticence to admit the same when they'd first received his photograph from Daniel.

"Ah, I'd have to disagree." He drew back slightly and looked at her askance.

"And why's that?"

"Because, Mr. Steele, I wasn't quite sixteen when that picture was taken, which would have made you eighteen or nineteen. You would have seen me as little more than a child." He hummed his reluctant agreement.

"Does this conclude my gift then?" he asked, motioning to the table.

"Not at all. Try our office."

There, on a shelf across from their desks, the picture of he and Elena bent over his school books. Next to it a picture of Laura with an older woman sitting next to her at a kitchen table as they appeared to be doing the same. Remington studied the picture, his brows raising when he made the connection.

"Your grandmother?" She nodded her head.

"Olivia Holt," she confirmed. He viewed the picture again, then turned with a grin lighting his face.

"You're the very image of her, Laura."

"I like to believe so." Her eyes sparkled with pleasure from his comparison. He chuckled quietly at the second set of pictures found on the right side of the shelf. His class photograph, and her own from parochial school.

"Remind me we need to pick up that little get up for the grown-up Laura so we might play one evening," he told her, waggling his brows. She raised her brows at him.

"Oh?" she asked, drawing the word out. "Do you have a thing for knee high socks as you do stockings?"

"Only when paired with a plaid, pleated skirt, prim white shirt and fetching plaid tie," he leered.

"I see. Is that the Catholic schoolboy coming out in you?" He winked.

"Something like that." Laughing, she could only shake her head at him.

"Maybe I'll see what I can do about that fantasy one day, big guy." Leaning against her crutches, she patted his chest. "But, in the meantime, would you mind helping me upstairs? I've gone up and down them one time too many today, as far as I'm concerned."

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name, noting his displeasure.

"It's not as though I had a choice. At least not if I was going to get everything done," she protested, as he lifted her from her feet and began the ascent up the stairs. Wisely, he chose not to argue the point further. He spied the pictures on their mantle as soon as they entered their bedroom. Setting her on her feet then waiting for her to steady, he studied the pictures on the right side of the mantle. He, Christos and Zeth, with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. He would have been nineteen or twenty then, as would have Laura in the picture with Frances. And on the other side of the mantle, he and Melina on the beach, complemented by a picture of Laura, alone, wearing a sleeveless blouse tied up underneath her breasts and a pair of miniscule shorts as she stood at the end of a pier stretching out into the Pacific, her eyes focused on the horizon.

"I didn't have anything similar," she shrugged, while she backed up and sat on the end of the bed, laying her crutches aside. "You realize what you have now, don't you?" He narrowed his brows at her, trying to discern her meaning.

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, love."

"A past. It wasn't what I'd have wanted for you, but some of the best parts of it are captured in photographs, just like my own. You, shortly after birth, as a toddler, a child, a teenager, then a young adult. And today," she tilted her head looking at their wedding picture, "as a man starting a new chapter of his life." Her words rocked him to his core and it was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling. Instead, he stepped to her, standing between her legs and taking her face in his hands.

"Because of you," he told her gruffly. She took his hand in hers and tugged until he sat next to her. She turned at an angle so she could look at him, as her fingers found his hair, raking slowly through it.

"No," she shook her head. "Because of you. Because despite all of it – the abandonment, running away, living on the streets – you found it within yourself to survive. And along the way you met people like Marcos and Elena… Henri… who saw your heart, your heart which managed to stay gentle… and kind… despite all the cruelty you'd witnessed along the way. I am so thankful for them… for Daniel… for keeping you safe for a time, for giving you the hope you needed so your heart could survive." She lifted glimmering eyes to his. "No matter what happens, five years from now, ten…fifty… I will still be thankful for them, because this life we have… that we _will_ have… is due in large part to each of them. I don't know if there will ever be enough words to express how grateful I am."

Remington's eyes flicked back and forth across Laura's face, stunned even further by her words. Cupping her face in his hands, he drew her lips to his, kissing her with a tenderness that left her shaking.

"I love you, Laura, with all that I am," he whispered against her lips.

"I love you, Remington," she whispered against his. She felt his body tremble under her hands at her words and drew him down over her as she lay back.

Their lovemaking that evening was not hot and torrid as Laura had imagined it would be when she'd dressed for the evening. Her gift to him and his gift of giving her the words he seldom said, made that an impossibility. The words were never enough for him, and he was determined to lathe every inch of her body with a potent reminder of his love for her. Fingers whispered across skin, lips trailing reverently behind; kisses shared were slow, poignant; and when their bodies finally merged, he was determined to prolong her pleasure for as long as possible while holding off his own until she finally forced him over the edge of oblivion with her.

Afterwards, he lay, still panting, with his head on her chest as her fingers wiped the sweat from his brow, before losing themselves in his hair. His finger tip traced pretty patterns over ribs, then abdomen, before he flattened his palm against the bare skin of her stomach, imaging that their child might even now be growing within her. Ever observant, Laura shifted so she could watch the play of emotion across his face through the mirror atop her dresser. Hope, love, amazement, reverence… His eyes met hers in the mirror and he realized what she was about. Brushing his lips against her abdomen, he stretched out facing her, drawing her to him until she was snuggled up with her cheek pressed to his chest and a leg tucked between his, while one of his hands buried itself in her hair and the other languidly stroked her back.

And, as her fingers drew through the hair on his chest, she fell asleep reviewing that play of emotion across her husband's face, and found herself believing for the first time since she realized she was late that perhaps being pregnant wasn't a bad thing at all.


	14. Chapter 14: Doorbell Etiquette

Thanksgiving morning dawned bright and clear. Remington had set the turkey in the oven to slow roast overnight, so the scent of turkey and stuffing filled the air. The day prior had been spent preparing for this day, at least for the most part. Remington happily preparing the side dishes to the meal, creating elaborate garnishes, and, yes, baking pies: apple, mincemeat, sweet potato and the traditional pumpkin. That he baked was a new discovery for Laura, but somehow she wasn't surprised. If there was something the man couldn't accomplish in the kitchen, she'd yet to discover what it was.

On her part, despite Remington's reservations, Laura had managed to sneak out of the house for several hours with Jocelyn, ostensibly to purchase napkins for the dining tables, vehemently insisting white linen napkins would not suit the holiday at all. After all, _everyone_ knew the napkins should be reflective of the colors of the fall centerpieces that would now grace the dining tables, she argued. The statement had left him flummoxed as he searched his knowledge bank for any information pertaining to Thanksgiving décor etiquette. He came up blank. Sensing her victory, she swiped her lips against his cheek and bid him adieu.

While she and Joceyln did, indeed, find those fall colored napkins and napkin holders etched with autumn leaves, they had been nothing more than an excuse. In truth, it was a long-standing Holt tradition, handed down by her beloved grandmother, that the day after Thanksgiving found a Christmas tree being put up and trimmed, and during the weekend after the proverbial halls decked. Even while single she had never dishonored the tradition and had no intention of doing so now. She never even questioned if Remington would mind them carrying the tradition into their lives, because as he'd pointed out, he neither had an idea how to deck the halls nor much knowledge at all regarding Christmas traditions.

Thus, she and Jocelyn had gone to Laura's favored tree lot and picked out a twelve foot spruce that would look stunning standing in the foyer nook open to the living room, created by the curve of the wood and wrought iron railing. A large wreath for their front door and several spruce bows to decorate the house with completed their purchase. A delivery fee and a generous tip provided the assurance all her purchases would be delivered Friday morning at eleven. Additional stops at Kirklands, Pier One, Bloomingdales and Saks Off Fifth left trunk and backseat packed with decorations for the tree. Only after she and Remington sat down and planned out the decorations for the remainder of the house, much as they had for Thanksgiving, would Jocelyn's shopping skills be put to the test again.

Wednesday evening, she tried, and failed, to tempt her husband into joining her in a hot bath. Shaking her head, she could only laugh when he departed the bathroom, yelling after him, "Remember this, Mr. Steele. You're not the only one to get turned down for food!" She'd heard him chuckling as he left their room.

He'd plucked her soggy, relaxed body out of the tub and hour later, and after bringing her downstairs, plopped her down on the kitchen counter so they could talk while he worked. That Laura wore not a stitch under her silk robe provided a constant source of distraction, as she meant it to. _She knows I know she knows what she's about, so perhaps it's time to up the ante a bit_ , he mused to himself. Over the course of the following hour, he fed her bits of the food he was creating, then would sample the taste himself with a brief, yet scorching kiss. Only when those kisses had begun to leave her squirming in their aftermath, her eyes dazed with unrequited lust, did he grasp her lovely bottom, pulling her towards the edge of the counter whilst giving a firm tug on the belt of her robe, allowing it to flow open. The passion he'd generated between them had him more than ready to take her, and take her did, hard and fast as she'd planned for the evening before, leaving her arching her back while she lay prone across the island, her hands slapping at the countertops as she cried out. He leaned over her where she lay still quivering and whispered in her ear.

"Be certain, Mrs. Steele, that you not recall every moment of this delightful interlude whenever you are in the kitchen amongst mixed company tomorrow." He stole a kiss from her lips even as her lovely brown eyes flew open, recognizing he'd assured she'd do just that with his warning.

"Paybacks, Mr. Steele, paybacks," she panted the warning, as he helped her sit up, chuckling all the while.

"I assure you, watching you tomorrow, our time here tonight, will be worth whatever your magnificent mind comes up with, love," he smiled, as he tucked his shirt tails back in and tied the apron around his waist again. He eyed her flushed skin, the chest that still rose and fell faster than normal, her swollen lips, and sultry brown eyes. Unable to resist, he stole another kiss then bussed her on the neck before turning to the sink to wash his hands.

Laura climbed into bed after midnight, leaving Remington to prepare the turkey to slow roast and to finish his cranberry sauce. She felt the bed dip when he climbed into bed, hair still damp from his shower, at a little after two-thirty. He needed only to stroke a hand over her shoulder and down her arm to draw her to him. Still sleep dazed, she settled her head in that place beneath his shoulder made for her alone, and wrapped a slender leg over his hips. Her fingertips burrowed themselves in the hair of his chest before her palm settled over his heart, drawing a contented sigh from him. With the familiar thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand, she drifted back into her dreams.

Remington buried a hand in her hair, while the other continued to stroke her arm from shoulder to fingertips. As much as he cherished their love making, it was their nightly routine – which once again had gone missing these last days – of lying, her head in his lap, talking before bed and this… the physical contact they both sought as they slept that meant the most to him. Tomorrow would be difficult for the woman sleeping in his arms, he knew. Despite the festive air of the occasion, whenever she spent any time of significance with her mother and sister, more particularly the former these days, she was left tense, jumpy and her self-confidence somewhere in the vicinity of non-existent. He'd have his hands full on the morrow, and was already planning how to go about soothing his wife's tattered nerves as he drifted off to sleep.

Now, outside, they were doing one last spot check on the arrangements. The widescreen television from Remington's viewing room had been wheeled outside and set up near the fireplace. Donald, who'd grown up in New London, Wisconsin, had been lamenting 'the big game' against the Detroit Lions would be on that night and he'd miss it. In a nod to his plight, the couple made sure he'd be able to enjoy the game while spending time with family. The children's table had been set up to accommodate Danny, Mindy and Laurie Beth, complete with turkey printed paper plates, to counter any possible accidents with the couple's fine china being used by the adults. The centerpieces for the adult's table had arrived as scheduled the day before, and their bright colors paid homage to the fall season in which they holiday fell. A fire burned in the fireplace and the speakers installed throughout the outdoor area, softly played instrumental jazz, as Laura wouldn't even consider allowing Christmas music to be played until Thanksgiving's day of honor had passed.

Stepping up behind her, Remington lay a hand on each of her shoulders, surveying the completed product.

"You've done an outstanding job, love," he complimented. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, although that smile never reached her eyes. The doorbell pealed at that instant. Feeling her shoulders tense under his hands, he lifted back her heavy hair and pressed his lips to the side of her neck while rubbing a hand briskly up and down her arm. "Have a little faith, love. All will be fine." The bell rang again as she looked at him doubtfully. Grasping her hand, he tugged her towards the house.

He laced her fingers with his hers, receiving a grateful smile, then swung open the front door.

"Abigail," he sung out in that way of his. Abigail's face lit up at both the greeting and the buss on her cheek.

"Remington, I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to this evening," she all but gushed, then turned an eye on her younger daughter.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mother," Laura greeted stiffly, pressing a kiss to the older woman's cheek as well.

"I had to ring the bell twice, Laura," Abigail sniffed, making sure it was clear she'd felt put out by the wait. "A good hostess makes sure she is available to answer the door immediately after the first ring. Had you cared to spend time learning good etiquette instead of running around with those street urchins you spent all your time with, you'd know that."

Behind his wife, Remington grimaced as he watched his wife's shoulder sag. Thanksgiving evening had begun…

(TBC)


	15. Chapter 15: Inspirational

_**A/N: Sorry this installment is a day late, but Remington and Laura seemed to have a lot of memories of Thanksgiving Day. I hope you enjoy the extra long addition this week. ~RS**_

* * *

 _Thanksgiving Day 1986_

Remington watched Laura wilt before his eyes. Abigail, more than anyone else, knew exactly how to take aim and hit a bullseye every time when it came to her daughter's self-confidence and general mood. Stepping behind Laura, he lay his hands on her shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"That would be my fault, I'm afraid, Abigail. I was admiring Laura's fine hand at holiday décor when you rang," he intervened, placating his mother-in-law. Thankfully they were rescued, albeit temporarily, from any further lacerations to Laura's spirit by the Piper family who had followed in Abigail's wake.

"Uncle Remington!" the smallest Piper cried out, shoving her way past parents, siblings, grandmother and aunt to get to him. Without missing a beat, he swung Laurie Beth up into his arms.

"Well, who do we have here? Do I know you?" he teased his young niece.

"It's me, Uncle Remington. Laurie Beth!" she answered earnestly.

"Now that can't be. My niece is a little bit of a thing of five and you must be _at least_ six." Laurie Beth patted his shoulder with her small hand while laughing.

"You're silly! I _am_ six," she hitched her thumb towards herself. "You were at my birf-day party, 'member?" He playfully scratched his head while pretending to think.

"Now that you mention it, it seems that I was," he agreed.

"Holy Pete!" Danny's voice rose above the rest. "Will ya look at the size of this place?"

"It's like a fairy tale castle," Mindy breathed, agreeing with her brother. "Can we look around, Aunt Laura?"

"Of course you can," Laura answered, smiling as Laurie Beth wriggled out of Remington's arms to accompany her siblings. "Just keep an eye on Laurie Beth out back."

"We will," the older two chorused, as they took off into the living room, Mindy grabbing her little sister's hand.

"I'll just excuse myself and keep an eye on the children. Frances, visit with your sister," Abigail offered.

"Holy Pete! Aunt Laura and Uncle Remington have a pool!" Danny could be heard exclaiming from the adjoining room.

"Mindy, don't let Laurie Beth get too close to the pool!" Abigail called after the children.

"Remington, good to see you," Donald greeted, holding out his hand.

"Yourself as well, Donald," Remington returned, shaking his brother-in-law's hand. "Laura made certain we set up the wide screen outside so you won't miss your game." Donald's face lit up in a wide grin.

"Well, then, you know where to find me. Can you point me in the right direction?"

"Through the living room and dining room, then once you're outside you'll find it next to the fireplace." Donald nodded as he leaned over to buss Laura on the cheek.

"It's no wonder you're my favorite sister-in-law," he winked drawing a laugh from her.

"There's not much competition since I'm your _only_ sister-in-law," she retorted.

"Can I help it if I have four sisters?" With that question, he followed the path his children had taken a minute before.

"Laura, the house is absolutely beautiful. I simply cannot believe that a neighborhood as quaint as this can be found in the heart of the city," Frances commented.

"LA is full of surprises," Laura noted.

"Care to take me on a tour?" her older sister requested.

"I'd be more than happy to as long as Remington doesn't mind helping me up and down the stairs," she agreed, while giving her husband a sidelong glance.

"I'm sure it can be arranged," he agreed. "You know where to find me when you need me," he bussed her on the cheek. "I'll just stay here, so the doorbell is answered on the first ring," he said quietly against her ear, quieting her laugh with his lips, lingering long enough to send her a reminder that she was extraordinary in his eyes.

"Let's start in the office," Laura suggested to Frances a little breathily. Frances nodded her head while giggling girlishly at the site of her sister's flushed skin.

"Oh my," Frances breathed when they entered the office, "If Donald kissed me like that in front of company I'd be dragging him off somewhere private in the blink of an eye. How _do_ you do it?"

"Years of practice, I assure you," Laura laughed.

"That's true I guess. I never had a clue that you and Remington were involved. When I found out Donald knew all along… well, he was in the doghouse with me for weeks. A husband should tell his wife such things, especially when it involves her little sister. When I think of how I would go on and on about how lucky you were not to have anyone special in your life. Well, I was _mortified_. Donald was lucky I didn't send him to the couch for a month!" Frances babbled on, while walking around the office, taking in all the details. "Two desks. Isn't it hard to work with Remington all day then come home and work with him all night as well?"

"You'd think it would be, wouldn't you? But it's surprisingly not. I love my job and I love doing it with Mr. Steele." Frances turned and looked at her in surprise.

"Mr. Steele? I know you had to call him Mr. Steele for your… cover… But you still do?" Laura was caught off guard by the question, then after thinking on it briefly, shrugged it off.

"Yes, probably as often as I call him Remington. Both names hold special meaning for me, as do Miss Holt and Mrs. Steele to him. I imagine we'll always use them to some degree."

"How romantic!" Frances oozed while Laura rolled her eyes behind her sister's back. _Typical Frances. First it's odd, now it's romantic._

They continued the tour through Remington's viewing room, the formal dining, then kitchen and great room. True to his word, Remington kept himself close to the door while chatting with Monroe, Jocelyn, Veronica and Maxie who'd arrived while Frances and Laura had wandered the downstairs. After introductions were made all around, Remington excused them. Lifting Laura easily in his arms, he carried her upstairs while Frances followed behind. With a buss on the cheek, he returned to their guests downstairs. The entire scene left Frances in a dreamy eyed state again, which was promptly greeted by a roll of Laura's eyes… again.

After looking in on the two guest bedrooms, they turned to the room at the end of the hall. Swinging the door open to the large space, Frances looked at Laura questioningly.

"What will you use this room for?"

"A dual studio," Laura supplied, crutching her way into the room. "The contractor is scheduled to start on Monday. This wall – she waved at the rear wall – will have floor-to-ceiling windows installed for additional light, plus they will provide a phenomenal view of the rear of the property. On this side of the room, she motioned towards the right of the room with her hand, "floor-to ceiling mirrors and a barre installed. The carpet will be removed and wide-plank, seamless hardwood floors will be laid throughout. On this side of the room," she indicated the left, "not much will change, other than the addition of a draft table, easel and whatever else Remington might need."

"Remington?" Frances raised her brows questioningly. "He paints?"

"Sketches," Laura corrected. "He's also had some training in graphic art and architecture. He drew up the plans for the changes that will be made," she told her sister proudly.

"What does he sketch?" Frances asked curiously.

"You'll see," Laura promised.

Leaving the room, they peeked into the guest bathroom, then traveled to the end of the hall and the master bedroom.

"Oh, my. Laura, this is amazing!" Frances enthused peering around the master suite. "A sitting area? _And_ a fireplace? _Oh, my,_ " she sighed, suddenly growing still her attention caught by the sketches surrounding Laura and Remington's wedding portrait. Laura sat down on the end of the bed and waited on Frances and she studied each at drawing at length. "Remington drew _these?"_

"Every one of them," she grinned. Frances sounded dumbstruck… a feeling Laura was familiar with when it came to her husband's talent in so many areas.

"He could do this professionally," Frances declared. Laura nodded her agreement.

"I'd have to agree. I've said as much. But, fortunately for me, he'd prefer to partner with me."

"Do you think—"

"Baby, take a look at you now!" Bernice's voice carried through the room, interrupting whatever it was Frances was about to ask. Laura pushed herself to her feet with the aid of her crutches.

"Frances, I don't think you've ever met our former secretary and a dear friend of mine, Bernice Hawke," Laura introduced. "Bernice, my sister Frances."

"How do you do?" Frances greeted primly. "Laura, I thought Mildred had always been your secretary?" she asked, confused.

"Only for the last four years. In the first two years after I… we started the Agency, Bernice was with us."

"I see. Well, I'm going to go downstairs and see if I can offer Remington any help. Enjoy your visit with your friend." Bernice watched Frances exit and turned to look at Laura, a questioning look on her face.

"Was it something I said?" Laura laughed.

"Frances is just being… Frances. Where's Little Man?"

"Downstairs. I've never seen anything like it. He literally flung himself at Skeeziks."

"I can see that. Children are naturally drawn to him." Bernice looked at her as though she'd gone mad.

"Seriously?"

"Honestly. It surprised the hell out of me as well when I saw it the first time. We had a case not too long after you left, a baby that needed to be concealed from his mobster grandfather. I came back to the condo and found Remington in his bedroom rocking the baby and singing to him," she smiled at the memory. It had by no means been the first time she'd recognized what a remarkable man he was underneath all the roles he'd don, but it had not once occurred to her before that day that he was cut out for fatherhood.

"You're lying," Bernice accused, mouth hanging open. Laura held up three fingers.

"Scout's honor. Watch him today with Bo and Frances's kids. You'll see," she told her a bit smugly.

"So," Bernice drawled, as she walked over to the French doors to peer out on the balcony, "do you and Skeeziks plan to have children one day?"

 _Maybe far sooner than we thought,_ she mused. "We've tal—"

"What did you just say?!" Bernice whirled around, interrupting her.

"We've talked a—" she tried again.

"Uh-uh," Bernice scolded, shaking her head adamantly. "Before that." Laura's eyes widened and she covered her face with her hands as a flush spread over her skin.

"Oh God, did I say that out loud?" she bemoaned.

"Are you…?" Bernice pursued. Laura face still in hands, sat shaking her head. _What's wrong with you, Holt? What would you have done if you slipped up like that in front of Frances… Oh my God, or Mother?!_ she silently belated herself. "Come on, Laura. It's me… Bernice. Anything said stays just between us, remember? So spill!" Dropping her hands, Laura considered Bernice at length.

"I'm late," she conceded.

" _How_ late?" Bernice pressed, walking across the room to sit next to Laura on the bed.

"Including today, five days."

"Does Skeeziks know?" Laura laughed softly.

"He figured it out before I did," she acknowledged.

"How's he handling it? Ready to duck and run? I think Jason would've taken off for Tahiti when he found out I was pregnant with Bo if he hadn't nearly fainted instead," she shared.

"He did not!" Laura laughed. Like Laura a couple minutes before, Bernice lifted three fingers in the air.

"Scout's honor," she vowed. "So… Skeeziks?"

"He's… elated, I believe is the word he used." A smile split Bernice's face.

"And you?" Laura steepled her fingers and tapped them against her lips as she considered the question.

"I thought Remington and I would have a couple of years alone together before we even really _discussed_ having children. I mean everything is so _new._ Our marriage is new, approaching one another honestly is new, not hiding things from each other… that's also new. I guess I thought we'd have more time to really know us, as a couple, as husband and wife, before we figured out how to be parents together." She released a deep sigh then when she turned to look at Bernice, smiled. "But he's been so… calm about the possibility… so… rational." She recalled the look on his face two nights ago as he'd laid with his hand on her stomach. "Excited." She paused again, gnawing at her bottom lip as she searched her heart, finding only peace, no doubts there. She flashed pair of dimples. " _If I am_ pregnant? Happy. Excited. Scared. But really, really happy. How couldn't I be? It would be _our_ child."

"Do you mean that, love?" Remington asked from the doorway. He'd come upstairs to offer her assistance down with dinner nearing completion, and, like in New York, had approached the room as she'd been speaking. Both Bernice and Laura turned startled eyes on him. But instead of flushing with embarrassment she looked at him with utter confidence showing in her eyes.

"I do. Every word," she confirmed.

"Mrs. Wolfe, can we have a moment, please?" He asked, staring at his wife as he crossed the room in three long strides.

"Not a problem," Bernice agreed with laughter playing in her voice.

Before she made it out of the room, Remington had taken Laura by the hands and pulled her to her feet, one arm wrapping around her waist like a vice, the other hand burrowing itself in her hair. He locked his mouth over hers, showing her with his kiss what her words had meant to him. Bernice laughed quietly to herself and closed the door behind her, giving them their privacy.

"I guess I can assume you're happy then?" Laura managed, when their lips parted, laughter glimmering in her eyes.

"I'll admit, I was becoming more than a little concerned it might take you the duration of your pregnancy to let go of your fears long enough to consider all the possibilities that lay ahead," he admitted.

"Remember what you said about a leap of faith?" His hum of acknowledgment was accompanied by a nod. "You weren't wrong. It took a leap of faith for me to hand you the role of Remington Steele, and look how that turned out." She tilted her head thoughtfully, her palm unconsciously stroking his back. "It took a leap of faith for me to believe you'd want to come home with me from London, and look how that turned out. Yet another to finally stop fighting what I'd felt for years to marry you." She pressed her lips to his throat. "And look how that turned out. Why should I believe this would be any different?" His lips lifted in a crooked grin, his eyes lit with happiness.

"Why indeed," he agreed, drawing her lips up to his again. He kissed her slowly, teasingly with brief flicks of his tongue against her lips, a nibble of his teeth, until her hand buried itself in his hair and she hummed from the pleasure. Breaking the kiss, he brushed his hand down the length of her back and patted her on her bottom several times. "As much as I'd like to continue this conversation, Mrs. Steele, we've been gone long enough already to arouse the curiosity of the masses waiting below." He leaned over to retrieve her crutches and handed them to her.

"You're right," she sighed, before stealing one last taste of his lips. "God forbid, Mother come up here and find us in a clinch. She'd lecture me the rest of the evening on what's expected from the hostess." She rolled her eyes as they made their way down the hallway towards the stairs.

"Mmmm," he hummed in agreement, as he picked her up to carry her down the stairs. "Too bad she won't have much of an opportunity to do so then, eh?" She looked at him suspiciously.

"What have you done, Mr. Steele?" He raised a conspiratorial brow at her.

"While I'll admit to nothing, it is possible that Veronica and Maxie have been persuaded to keep Abigail entertained throughout the evening." Laura's lips twitched with mirth.

"You didn't!" she pretended to scold as he set her on her feet at the bottom of the stairwell.

"As I said, Mrs. Steele, I'll admit to nothing." He glanced at his watch. "Now, it's high time to get this show on the road. We should be sitting down to our meal within the half hour." He nodded towards the living room. "And it seems our Mrs. Wolfe may be looking for you to rescue her from whatever Frances is bending her ear about." She glanced across the room where, as Remington had observed, Bernice had a polite but pained look on her face.

"Hmmm. Seems our duties as hosts have been determined, at least for now, doesn't it?" she agreed.

"It does, indeed. If you send Frances to the kitchen, I'll put her to work for a bit," he offered. She nodded, and when they entered the living room he veered left towards the kitchen while she made a beeline for the two women.

"Frances, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping Remington get everything to the table? I'm afraid I can't be of much help to him right now," she gave a pointed look at her crutches.

"Well of course I will Laura, you needn't even ask," Frances scolded gently. "I'm afraid duty calls," she apologized to Bernice. "It was very nice speaking with you." With those words, she left the other two women to their own devices.

"I swear to you, Laura, all I did was mention that Jason and I might be moving back to LA, and your sister has been talking about how we should consider living in Tarzana and that I should consider selling Mary Kay like she is," Bernice filled her in.

"Are you really? Thinking about moving back to LA?" Laura asked, surprised. Bernice nodded, smiling.

"Jason found out on Friday that he's up for a big promotion. If he gets it, it would mean relocating back here. We should know before the first of the year. Now, enough about that, I want to know about these," Bernice told her, turning to look at the mantle of the fireplace. "Are these really pictures of Skeeziks and you?"

"They are," Laura grinned. Bernice considered her for a long moment then sighed.

"I know I'm going to regret asking, given how much you confused me the last time we talked about his past, but where did you get them?" Laura laughed merrily. Bernice's curiosity clearly outweighed her reluctance.

"The two pictures here and the one on the credenza in the foyer were entrusted to me by Daniel when he… passed. The pictures on the piano, dining room mantle, in our office and bedroom all came from Elena and Marcos."

"Can I…?"

"Of course. Feel free to look around. I'm going to go check in with our other guests, but I'll answer any questions you have… and I'm sure you'll have some… after dinner."

Bernice and Laura parted company, Bernice moving to look at the photos on the piano, while Laura wandered outside in search of Monroe and Jocelyn, since she hadn't had the chance to greet them yet. She stopped on the terrace to greet both Veronica and Maxie who were discussing old Hollywood with a fascinated Abigail. She found Jocelyn and Monroe watching the Detroit Lions vs Greenbay Packers game on the television stationed next to the fireplace. Donald and Jocelyn were carrying on a lively debate about the merits of Randy Wright versus Joe Ferguson as quarterbacks, while Monroe looked on, bemused.

"Jocelyn, I had no idea you were a football fan," Laura commented.

"My Pops is from Detroit. I used to watch the game every Sunday with him," Jocelyn supplied. Laura glanced at the television and saw it was a little over two minutes until half-time.

"Whose winning?" she asked.

"The Packers are wiping the field with the Lions," Donald smirked. "Twenty-three to thirteen."

"Dinner should be on the table in ten minutes," she let the group know, then returned to the house, passing Frances who was taking gravy tureens out to the table.

In the kitchen, she found Remington and Jason in aprons, Jason stacking hot rolls on plates while Remington was filling bowls with stuffing so that Frances could take them to the table. Doing a mental check on all their guests, Laura turned to Jason.

"Jason, where's Bo? He wasn't with Bernice." The idea of the toddler roaming around on his own was alarming given the pool outside and the stairs inside.

"Uh, your older niece volunteered to watch him while I help Remington," Jason answered.

"Mindy," Laura supplied. She turned to her husband. "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Laura," Abigail's voice came from behind her, making Laura scrunch her face as though in pain. "Why don't you just go have a seat and rest your leg. Veronica, Maxie and I have volunteered to help Frances get everything set on the table. You'll just be in the way here."

"Nonsense, Abigail," Remington interceded. "I enjoy Laura's company immensely when I'm cooking."

"Remington is an excellent chef," Abigail bragged to Maxie and Veronica. "Laura's never been much use in the kitchen." Remington grimaced as he watched Abigail's cutting remark find its home.

"To the contrary," Remington disagreed, "I have found Laura to be absolutely… inspirational…" he caught Laura's eyes and looked pointedly at the counter, "in the kitchen." Her eyes widened and she had to muffle a horrified giggle as she recalled precisely how she'd inspired him the night prior.

"Well, the credit, I'm sure, must go to you for that. I most certainly could never get her to take an interest. Always rolling her eyes at me, complaining she was bored," Abigail commented. Remington stroked his chin as though considering what she said.

"Hmmmm. I'd have to say she is fully committed to our endeavors. Very actively engaged. Passionate even."

At the end of the counter, Jason snorted with shocked laughter, realizing what Remington was referring to, then covered with a cough. Laura flushed to the roots of her hair, while Remington grinned at her as he handed Abigail two heaping bowls of mashed potatoes. As he opened his mouth, prepared to continue on, he took a crutch to the shin while his wife looked angelically at him.

"Right. If you wouldn't mind taking these to the table, Abigail," he requested, then handed Veronica bowls of cranberry sauce and Maxie bowls of candied yams, bussing each of the older ladies on the cheek and giving them a wink.

"I'll just take these to the table," Jason offered, taking off the apron and laying it on the counter, leaving Remington and Laura alone. He leaned over to rub at his shin, testing the waters with a crooked grin. She scowled at him in return, purely on matter of principle, of course. With another glance at her, he straightened. With her cool, collected mask firmly in place, he was uncertain if he was in hot water or not. Picking up the platter holding the roasted turkey, he nodded towards the terrace.

"Shall we then, Mrs. Steele?" With a flick of her hair over her shoulder to express her displeasure, she preceded him outside, only smiling when he would be unable to see the amusement on her face. _Only him_ , she thought to herself.

* * *

 _ **INFWK: The Detroit Lions v. Greenbay Packers game that took place on Thanksgiving Day 1986 remains the highest scoring NFL game played on Thanksgiving Day.**_


	16. Chapter 16: The Last Man

With all gathered and platter of turkey settled in front of his place setting, Remington pulled out Laura's seat next to him. As he picked up his wine glass and prepared to raise it in a toast, Abigail, seated at the head of the table spoke.

"Laura, don't you think the occasion calls for Grace to be said?" her mother admonished, making Laura shift uncomfortably in her seat after being called out before one and all. Frances moved as if to intercede but Remington beat her to punch.

"Abigail, as matriarch of the family gathered here, I believe the honor should be yours," he suggested flashing her his pearly whites with a slight nod of his head towards her.

"Thank you, Remington. It would be my honor." She waited until all at the adult's table joined hands, and after a look of admonishment at Mindy and Danny at the children's table, nodded when the siblings followed suit. Closing her eyes, she began: "Dear Lord, As we gather together around this table laden with your plentiful gifts to us, we thank You for always providing what we really need and for sometimes granting wishes for things we don't really need. Today, let us be especially thankful for each other-for family and friends who enrich our lives in wonderful ways, even when they present us with challenges.  
Let us join together now in peaceful, loving fellowship to celebrate Your love for us and our love for each other. Amen."

A chorus of 'Amens' resounded around the table. Remington stood again, wine glass in hand, subtly replacing the wine glass in Laura's hand with a goblet of ice water. A look passed between them that was not left unnoticed by Frances. Her brows furrowed and she stared at her baby sister across the table, only diverting her attention to Remington as he began to speak.

"To our family and friends. We are thankful that you are able to enjoy this fine occasion with us and are truly grateful for the presence of each of you in our lives." He turned to look down at Laura, the intensity of his gaze leaving her flushing. "And to my beautiful wife, Laura, without whom this home, this life, this day would not have been possible. Never has a man been more thankful than I. Salud."

The cacophony of clinking glasses was followed by good natured conversation around the table as Remington sliced and served turkey to all, saving himself for last. Bowls of candied yams, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, coleslaw, and green bean casserole made their rounds from one person to the next, followed in short order by gravy and rolls.

Laura watched in quiet amazement as this hodgepodge collection of individuals seemed to not only get along with one another, but actually _enjoyed_ one another. Her rigid, Junior League mother, the former 'Queen of the B's", an elderly woman who'd once been scammed of her inheritance, a former smuggler turned businessman, an elite model, the former belle of the ball and secretary, a representative of the music industry, a housewife, a dentist turned professor and a former thief and conman turned renowned detective and husband. Discussions of football, modeling, old Hollywood, the jazz scene in New Orleans and old cases Remington and Laura had helped solve for four of the people sitting at the table, were mixed with the promises of exchanged recipes, referrals to hairdressers and recommendations on how to create a home entertainment system that would be suit music or movies were the focus of conversation. And, towards the end of the meal, more evidence of how successful the evening was turning out to be, when a six-year-old little girl gave a tug of her Uncle Remington's sleeve, to be lifted up into his lap so she could curl against him and suck her thumb, without worry of admonishment by her mother.

She was so pleased with the way the evening was going that she only narrowed her eyes at her husband when he deftly replaced the full wine glass she'd been reaching for with his empty one. After all, how annoyed could she be as several times during the meal she'd absently reached for it only to find his hand clasping with hers, before giving her hand a subtle squeeze reminding her why it was best to avoid the beverage for now. Frances had paid particular interest to their interactions and decided to see if she could ferret out confirmation of her suspicions.

"You know," Frances said above the quiet din of conversation, "Remington's toast to Laura was so lovely, I think it would be wonderful if we went around the table and each said what we are thankful for this year. I'll start." She closed her eyes for a second. "I am of course thankful for my husband and three beautiful children. And this year I am particularly thankful for Donald's taking the job at USC and relocating us here."

"You are?" Laura asked in a stunned voice.

"Of course I am, Laura. It's allowed you and I to become much closer and Donald so enjoys the time he spends with Remington."

"I had no idea," she murmured more to herself than the table at large.

"Donald, you're next," Frances nudged. Donald cleared his throat before speaking.

"I'm of course thankful for my wife and children, my family back home in Wisconsin. But also for the first time in nearly forty years, I won't have to shovel a driveway and scrape the windows of the car. And of course, the fact that the Packers are currently beating the Lions." The last was met with laughter from around the table and a curled nose from Jocelyn. "Abigail."

"I am thankful my daughters have found good, kind men as husbands, both of whom I am proud to call my son-in-laws. I am thankful for my three wonderful grandchildren and look forward to when I can add a couple more to that list," she finished, looking pointedly at a grinning Remington and a squirming Laura.

Veronica, Maxie, Jason and Bernice took their turns, then it was Remington's.

"Well, uh, I believe I've already mentioned my lovely wife. I'm thankful as well that in this last year I have gained the family I've never had." His voice was gruff. Sensing his distress, Laura twined her fingers with his. Grateful for her support, he lifted their joined hand to touch his lips to her knuckles. "I believe it's your turn, love."

"I wanna turn!" Laurie Beth piped up, drawing laughter from around the table.

"Well, how on earth did I forget about you," Remington teased, giving the girl a one armed hug. "Tell everyone what you're thankful for, little bit."

"I'm thankful for my Uncle Remington. He gives the best horsey rides and gets me pineapple pizza!" she chortled, launching herself up in his lap to sling her arms around his neck, giving him a hug.

"And I am thankful for such a charming niece," he smiled, tapping her on her nose, making the little girl giggle joyously. Bernice watched the scene play out with slackened jaw.

"Your turn Auntie Laura!"

"Alright. Well, I am thankful to Daniel for making us realize what is important," she said, giving Remington's hand a squeeze. "I am thankful for new family members and all the possibilities we have to look forward to in the years to come." Remington's eyes blazed with fierce pride.

"Ah, Laura, come here, love," he told her, giving her hand a little tug. He brushed his lips across her cheek when she leaned towards him.

"And on that note, it would appear it's time to clean up after dinner so that we can make room in both stomach and on table for dessert," Remington announced.

Standing, he began clearing the table, this time with the assistance of Bernice, Jocelyn, Monroe and Donald. In the kitchen, Donald and Monroe washed while Laura dried as Remington pulled the numerous pies he'd baked along with bowls of fresh whipped cream from the refrigerator. Jocelyn and Bernice took charge of delivering all of it to the table set up for dessert, while Remington removed dessert plates and silverware from cabinets and drawers, before personally delivering them to the table outside. A final trip netted pitchers of iced tea, lemonade, water, and milk. The Steele's had decided dessert would be served buffet style so that their guest could pick and choose what they wanted for dessert and when to enjoy it.

Bernice cornered Laura in the kitchen as Remington was helping her down from the counter where she'd been sitting as she dried the dishes.

"So, who are the hunks in the picture upstairs?" Laura's laughter wafted through the kitchen.

"Mr. Steele, would you mind?" she asked, indicating the second level of the house with a lift of her eyes towards the kitchen ceiling.

"Not at all," he agreed, following them to the base of the staircase where he picked up Laura and carried her up, steadying her on her feet at the top of the landing. "I'll go see to our guests."

"Twenty minutes?" Laura suggested. Remington nodded and after a buss on her cheek, descended the stairs and went to join their guests. In the bedroom, Laura settled herself on the bed, using the backboard as a headrest. "Why don't you bring the pictures with Remington here and I'll explain them to you. Bernice nicked the two pictures in question off the mantle and handed them to Laura before climbing up on the bed and reclining as well.

"Zeth," Laura pointed to the shorter, dark haired man in the picture, "is Remington's brother – adoptive brother in a manner of speaking. Zeth is solemn, steady, and nearly always serious, unless he is getting even for one of his brother's antics. He is two and a half years older than Remington making him the oldest of the four. He is married to Calista and together they have six children, seven years and under: Twins Cole and Colin, Kara, twins Alicia and Alexia, then Nicco who was born just a couple months ago."

" _Six?_ I can't wrap my head around having two!" Bernice commented.

"I know. Big families are tradition in the Androkus family," Laura laughed. Her finger moved to the image of Christos. "Christos is two months younger than Remington. The two of them were joined at the hip while Remington was there. He is impulsive, free-spirited, prone to practical jokes and fiercely protective of all his siblings. He is married to Helena and they have five children together, all girls, all under six: Addy, Bronte, Coleen, Daphne and Eirene."

"And eye candy. Tall, muscular and those eyes." Laura snorted a little laugh.

"Yes, he is all that." She took the picture of Remington and Melina from Bernice. "This is Melina, the only girl. She is nearly seven years younger than Remington and…" she rolled her eyes "…worships the ground he walks on. Did you see the picture of the boy and girl building a sandcastle downstairs?"

"Yes." It took a second then what Laura was implying took root. "That was them?"

"Mmmm," Laura hummed her agreement. "While Zeth and Christos saw her as the pesky little sister growing up, Remington always found time for her, whether it was building sandcastles on the beach or comforting her after a nightmare. Melina is a talented pianist and can get under Remington's skin faster than anyone I have ever seen before. She is full of energy, talks fast, and is very quick to put him in his place when the notion occurs to her." Laura slanted her eyes at Bernice. "The day we met, I actually thought she was one of his old girlfriends, the way she threw herself at him."

"Turned you a little green huh?" Bernice laughed.

"It was our honeymoon. Who wants to see some woman clinging to their husband on their honeymoon," Laura defended with a laugh. "I was prepared to hate her on sight, merely on principle of course."

"And?"

"She's wonderful. I really wish you could see how she tongue ties Remington . She has him wrapped around her little finger and she knows it. I think she'll always be that little girl on the beach building sandcastles to him." She turned her head and smiled at Bernice. "That said, she makes that muscle in his jaw twitch even more than I."

Bernice slipped off the bed and replaced the pictures on the mantle then rejoined Laura on the bed.

"So, who's the artist?" She nodded towards the hanging sketches. Laura raise a single brow at her, receiving a growl of irritation from Bernice. "First off, stop it with the eyebrow thing. It makes me as crazy as when he does it." Laura's laughter echoed in the room again. "Second, if you expect me to believe Skeeziks drew those, I should hope you'd know I'm not that gullible." Laura simply watched with amusement as Bernice frowned, then her eyes widened and jaw dropped. "Oh, come on, Laura! There's no way! Life is not that cruel! He can't look like he does, be as charming as he is – which I will deny to my dying breath - cook like that…" she waved in the general direction of outside, "and draw _like that_ too!"

"I've often thought the same thing, but regardless of how fair it is, it's true. Those are all originals drawn by his own hand," Laura smiled proudly.

"So, tell me about them."

"There's two that you should be able to identify yourself," Laura hinted. Bernice got off the bed and crossed the room to the mantle, studying each one closely. After several minutes had passed, she tapped on one. "Is that the dance I walked in on in New York?" Laura nodded her head.

"It is," she confirmed. Another thirty seconds elapsed before she tapped on another sketch.

"The night we found out he was posing as Remington Steele." Laura nodded again. "And this one?" She tapped of the portrait of Laura and Remington sleeping in the hammock.

"Cannes during our honeymoon," she smiled softly. "We spent _a lot_ of time in that hammock. Enjoyed it so much, we had to make sure we had a couple for the house after we bought it." Bernice waved her hands at Laura.

"Stop right there. I don't want to know the gory details," Bernice laughed. Both women looked towards the door as Frances entered the room. Without saying a word, she joined Laura on the bed.

"Keep going," Laura assured Bernice. "It's just saving me from having to repeat everything for Frances again." Bernice nodded then pointed at the sketch of Remington and Laura wearing robes and kissing passionately.

"Two questions: First, what are the two of you wearing? Second, when and where?"

"Remember when Wilson showed up with the body in the trunk of his car? The one he'd found at the winery?" Laura queried.

"Yeah, what's that got to do with this?"

"Remington and I needed to do some digging around in St. Costello's Monastery after it seemed the monks had taken off with Harry—"

"Wait. Whose Harry?" Bernice asked, shaking her head.

"The body. We had no idea who he was, so we nicknamed him Harry. Well, Remington did. You know – _The Trouble with Harry,_ John Forsythe, Shirley MacClaine, Paramount, 1955." Bernice could only roll her eyes at the movie annotation.

"Oh God, he has you doing it now," she groaned.

"Wait just a second, Ms. _The Yakuza_ ," Laura countered, pointing a finger at her.

"Alright, alright, you've got me. Go on," she indicated the picture again.

"So, since we broke into the monastery, it only seemed to make sense, to wear what they wore…"

"When in Rome…" Frances provided. Laura grinned at her sister and nodded her head.

"So we borrowed a couple of their robes," Laura finished.

"It still doesn't explain this," Bernice pointed out, referencing the picture again.

"I'd think it's pretty self-explanatory. I… kind of… jumped him, and we made out in the wine cellar of the monastery," Laura expounded, while blushing deep red.

" _You jumped him?_ " Bernice asked, clearly shocked. Laura shrugged her shoulders then held up her hands and laughed.

"What can I say. The man _really_ knows how to kiss."

"In a monastery, no less," Bernice pretended to scold.

"Well I think it is positively romantic," Frances added her thoughts. Laura turned and grinned at her.

"Romantic, I guess. But I would probably describe it as hot… very, very hot. I mean, that kiss was so good, I thought of it as 'The Kiss' for years." Frances giggled next to her.

"This one," Bernice said, next pointing to the sketch of Remington's hand held by Laura as a finger traced the palm.

"Uh uh. That's for just Remington and I to know," Laura refused. Bernice raised her brows in surprise, but moved on to the picture of the two of them spooning together.

"Vail, I would guess, since I'm wearing his pajama top. If so—"

"You were wearing his pajama top? Why? Did you forget your nightgowns?" Frances asked, truly perplexed.

"I don't _bring_ my nightgowns and have learned if I do pack them, they just somehow end up missing anyway," Laura answered, laughing as she recalled his conveniently leaving behind all her nightgowns when they'd traveled from Ireland to Greece. "I _like_ wearing his pajama top. It makes me feel even closer to him. Besides, when a man's chest looks and feels like his, you don't want _him_ wearing it." Frances blushed then giggled girlishly.

"Oh, Laura, you are so bad."

"Smart, Frances, smart," Laura corrected.

"Last one," Bernice announced, pointing to the picture of Remington and Laura kissing on the docks.

"Our first kiss," she answered simply, arousing Bernice's curiosity.

"And when exactly was that?"

"Do you remember the case where the video game programmer disappeared?" Bernice narrowed her eyes while searching her mind. They widened when she realized when that case had occurred.

"But that was _before_ our discussion that you should just go for it and you said you couldn't!" Bernice accused.

"Actually it was two weeks _after_ that discussion," Laura qualified.

"What happened to 'couldn't'?" Bernice demanded to know, trying not to laugh. Laura let out a frustrated sigh and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"What do you think? When a man who that looks like _that_ , who had started to drop all the masks when he was with me, who was constantly _hitting on me_ , and I had _been dying with curiosity_ to know what it would be like from the second we met... What do you think happened to _couldn't?_ " Laura tossed her hands up in the air. "If it makes you feel any better, it scared the hell out of both of us."

"It did?" Bernice laughed.

"Hell, yes. It was one thing being curious, quite another when we both realized after the kiss that there really was something… very… real… between us," she shook her head, even memories of those times making the confusion swirl in her head. "It was… God… electric… It felt like…" she stumbled, burying her face in her hands refusing to say the words.

"It felt like what? Now, Laura, you can't leave us hanging," Frances scolded lightly.

"Oh, God," Laura groaned into her hands. Frances looked at Bernice.

"She's always been like this you know. Afraid of her feelings," Frances told her knowingly, while nodding her head.

"You don't have to tell me, but he's just as bad as she is – or they were, maybe. I spent the better part of a year watching the two of them watching each other, pretending not to watch each other. But let one of them show up with someone else… take cover!"

"I am right here, you know," Laura reminded them from behind her hands.

"We know," they said in unison.

"Did she ever tell you about the magnum—" Bernice began.

"Alright," Laura nearly shouted, tossing up her hands. "If I tell you, will the two of you _stop_?"

"Scout's honor," Bernice pledged.

"Oh, God," she groaned, flushing from head-to-toe before the words ever left her mouth. Looking at the ceiling she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't speak for Remington, but for me?"

"Uh, Laura," Bernice tried to interrupt.

"You wanted to know so just let me say it, okay?" she nearly snapped. Bernice held up her hands and took two steps back. "When we kissed that first time, it felt like…kismet. As though he was the last man I was ever meant to kiss." She fairly growled after the confession. " _That's_ why it scared the hell out of me." She finally turned to Frances to see her wide-eyed and staring at a point behind her. Her eyes moved to Bernice, who had a 'I tried to warn you' look on her face. She dropped her face into her hands again in mortification.

 _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Please, no,_ she prayed silently then managed to force the words past her lips.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?"

"He is," Remington's voice came from inside the doorway.


	17. Chapter 17: Into Their Corners

"I tried to warn you, Laura," Bernice reminded her. Looking at Frances, she cocked her head towards the door. "Come on, Frances. Let's leave the two of them alone." Frances was only too happy to leave before the situation became more awkward and scrambled out the door.

"I have _got to stop_ having private conversations when you are within a mile radius," she groused, refusing to make eye contact with him. Remington tapped at his watch.

"If you'll recall, you gave me a directive to return in twenty minutes. Even at that I'm running a few minutes late." With a shake of his head, he crossed the room to sit on the side of the bed. "Look, Laura, I don't know what you're so embarrassed about…"

"Of course you don't," she agreed irritably. "I don't recall walking in on you while you were divulging extremely embarrassing confessions." She puffed out a frustrated breath.

"Perhaps because the only person I'm inclined to make my confessions to is you, eh?" he posed the question, while using a single finger under her chin to turn her head to look at him.

"So, you're really going to sit there and tell me you never talk to Monroe about us?" The question gave him pause as memories of Vail, after Laura had gone missing played through his head.

"Well, yes, on occasion," he conceded, uncomfortable now himself.

"Have you told him things about us you've never told me?"

"No!" he answered adamantly, then paused and frowned again as part of a conversation in Vail traipsed through his mind.

* * *

" _ **You love her."**_

" _ **You don't give up, do you old friend?... Yes."**_

* * *

"Well, yes," he corrected. "But rarely and only when cornered," he clarified.

"And Frances and Bernice cornered me just now," she defended. He chuckled quietly.

"Perhaps a confession of my own would set things right?" _That_ peaked her interest. She started to smile then frowned.

"An _honest_ confession?" she clarified.

"Isn't that what we do these days?" he challenged.

"About that first kiss?" she pursued.

"If you wish," he acquiesced.

"Alright," she agreed slowly. He nodded, then lifted a finger to scratch at the size of the nose.

"It shocked the bloody hell out of me," he shared. He couldn't help it. He knew she was looking for more, but he'd be damned if he was going to sit on the hot seat and not have a little fun first… even if it had been his suggestion. She crossed her arms, and leveled her eyes on him.

"That's it. It 'shocked the bloody hell out of me'? Not much of a confession, Mr. Steele. It was written all over your face that night." She averted her head, miffed.

"A confession all the same," he argued, trying not to smile as her skin began to pinken with anger.

"Hardly of equal substance." She pushed herself to the end of the bed and reached for her crutches.

"Now, Laura," he soothed, trying to keep the laughter from his voice.

"Don't 'now Laura' me!" she snapped. "Three times. _Three times_ now you've caught me unaware, and you make this so-called _sincere_ offer to share your own confession and what do I get?" She leaned on her crutches and flailed her hands. "'It shocked the bloody hell out of me.' Well, you know what you can do with your confession, Mr. Steele." She moved to leave the room as fast as her crutches could carry her.

"Lau-ra," he called after her, taking to his feet in pursuit, catching her before she could reach their bedroom door. Closing the door, he slipped between the door and her. The anger heating her eyes couldn't hide the glimmer of hurt lurking behind it. "I'm sorry. I was simply having a bit of fun with you, couldn't resist, though this seems a bit of an overreaction, even for you—"

"What's that supposed to mean!?" she demanded to know. He grimaced recognizing his misstep. He held up his hands in apology.

"Sorry, sorry. Let's try again, shall we?" He took a moment to refocus, hoping to convey the correct amount of sincerity she was expecting. "Why are you so upset about this, eh? Why should it upset you that I overheard our first kiss was simultaneously as wonderful and disturbing as I, myself, found it to be? If anything, it seems to me maybe I should be one the irritated that on three occasions now I have found you willingly telling someone how you feel about important matters in our life, yet you've never felt inclined to share those very things with me." Now that the thought had occurred to him, he was a bit shocked to find he was feeling quite put out. "Should I have _overheard_ you're happy to be carrying our child, _if_ indeed you are? Or should I have heard it directly from you? The same could be said about the conversation I walked in on in New York." His irritation took on momentum, his brows furrowing together and his eyes darkening as the storm brewed. "The more I think about it, the more I realize you are once more wanting from me what you, yourself, continue to withhold." She scrunched her face and looked away from him, wondering how and when this conversation had veered out of control.

"Remington…" His eyes flashed at her as he swung open the door.

"Shall we Miss Holt. We've guests to attend to." She remained where she leaned on her crutches and tried again.

"Rem –"

"I'll be waiting for you at the stairs," cutting her off, he left the room. She stared after him for long seconds before resignedly swinging herself forward. That he wouldn't even look at her as he carried her down the stairs and set her on feet, did not bode well for the remainder of the evening before them. This prediction was only confirmed when Frances cornered her in the living room and drew her into the office, closing the door behind them.

"Frances…" Laura began with a huff, intending to remind her sister her presence was required as hostess.

"Laura, I came upstairs to ask you something. Now, before I do, I want to point out I know we haven't always been…close… but I had thought that had changed since I moved here. I mean, we are closer aren't we?"

"Well, yes," Laura agreed cautiously, even as alarm bells sounded in her mind.

"And I want you to understand that I have only your very best interests at heart…" Laura's brows furrowed.

"Of course you do," she agreed even more hesitantly.

"And to assure you that anything said between the two of us—"

"For God's sake, Frances," Laura interrupted, what limited patience she had left evaporating, "Just spit it out already."

"I saw the…thing… with the wine at dinner tonight…" Frances began, as Laura forced that impenetrable mask of passivity on her face, as she all the while began to panic. _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. If Frances knows, Mother is only a heartbeat behind!_ "… and I was wondering if—"

"I can't drink wine while I'm taking the pain medication," Laura lied smoothly. Frances's face fell, disappointed.

"Oh, I thought…"

"I know what you thought," Laura forced a smile. "We've only been married five months, Frances. Right now, all our energy is focused on being newlyweds, moving and the holidays. I'm sure we'll talk about children somewhere _down the line_ ," she assured her, emphasizing the last. "Now, I really need to go mingle or I'll hear about my failures as a hostess from Mother the rest of the evening."

With those words, she beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

When Laura crossed through the French doors, she surveyed their guests outside. Mindy and Danny were being entertained by Veronica and Maxie, with the former reenacting death scenes from her movies, keeping the kids enthralled with her drama as Abigail sat nearby with a sleepy Laurie Beth in her lap. Across the patio, Remington, Monroe, Jason and Bernice sat conversing at the cleared dining table, Little Man already tucked up on Remington's shoulder and sucking his fingers as he battled to keep his eyes open. By the fireplace, absorbed with their game, Donald and Jocelyn. She watched as Frances went to join their mother, taking Laurie Beth from Abigail's lap and sitting down with her instead. Hesitantly, Laura joined the group at the dining table, sitting down next to her husband.

"Actually, the villa is not in Cannes proper but in a village by the name of Theoule-sur-Mer," Remington was saying.

"How far will you be from the beach?" Bernice queried.

"The villa has its own, private beach," he answered. "But I can assure you, none of us will be taking a dip in the Med, not at this time of the year. A stroll along the beach is certainly reasonable, but I suspect we will spend a good deal of our time enjoying what the Promenade de las Croisette and Le Suquet in Cannes have to offer, not to mention an evening or two at the Casinos."

"Jocelyn and I will take a two days to visit Isola 2000 as well," Monroe added.

"Isola 2000?" This from Jason.

"A premiere ski resort not far from Cannes. Jocelyn is an avid skier and has talked often of the pistes she wishes to take on there."

"I'm confused. I thought that area of France was known for beach life?" Bernice pondered aloud.

"As do most people. Few realize that within an hour and a half's drive you can find some of the finest slopes in Europe," Monroe corrected.

"I'm assuming you aren't going?" she asked, looking at Remington and Laura. In his peripheral, Remington observed the slash of disappointment that cut through Laura at the mention of the ski trip that was no longer a possibility. Shifting Bo to his left shoulder, his hand reached for hers, weaving their fingers together.

"We'll enjoy our time alone together, I assure you," he told Bernice, giving her a bawdy wink that left her rolling her eyes.

"Awwww, come on!" Donald bellowed, making all heads turn in his direction. "Where's our D at?" He shook his head as Jocelyn jumped up to do a little jig. Seeing everyone staring at them, she laughed.

"Bland just caught a ten-yard pass from Ferguson, to put us up thirty-seven to twenty-three," she filled everyone in, then did a little dance again. Jason pushed back his chair and stood.

"I think I'm going to go watch a little of the game. There's nothing like seeing a grown man cry over his team getting slaughtered on Thanksgiving Day," he grinned. Monroe stood as well.

"I think I'll join the fray before my lovely Jocelyn finds herself tossed into the fire for her… exuberance," he noted, nodding to Bernice, Laura and Remington before departing.

"Donald," Frances called to him. "I think we should be going. Laurie Beth is falling asleep and we need to get her to bed."

"Are you kidding me, Frances? And miss the rest of the game? By the time we get home it'll be over!" Donald all but whined.

"Mom, please can we stay?" This from Danny.

"Please, Mommy. I want to watch Miss Veronica die some more," echoed Mindy.

"Why don't we lay down Laurie Beth and Little Man in one of the guest rooms?" Laura suggested. "I'll stay with them so everyone can continue to visit," she offered.

"Well, if you're sure," Frances called back, her voice hesitant.

"I am," she assured her sister.

Bernice stood and took Bo from Remington. "I've got him, you enjoy the company," she suggested. He nodded his agreement then stood to join the group by the television.

The three women left with the two youngest children. Only when they reached the steps did Frances and Jocelyn pause to look at Laura.

"I'll go get Remington," Frances offered at once.

"Don't bother. I go up and down the stairs all the time," she lied blithely. "I'll meet you up there. Either bedroom is fine to use."

"Laura, are you sure?" Frances worried.

"I'm fine," Laura laughed, pretending an ease she didn't feel. The last thing she needed to do was take a tumble down the stairs. There would be hell to pay with her husband _and_ mother should that happen.

With a sigh, she watched Frances and Bernice ascend, then gripping her crutches in one hand and the railing in the other, she slowly hopped up the steps, one at a time, until she reached the landing, breathing hard from the exertion, but immensely relieved to have done it on her own none the less. By the time she entered the second guest bedroom, Bo was curled up on his side, fingers in his mouth, asleep and Laurie Beth was lying next to him, Frances rubbing her back to put her to sleep.

"Go on, I've got it from here," Laura assured the women, "It will do me good to put my leg up for a while."

"Well, if you're sure…" Frances hesitated.

"I am. Honestly. Go enjoy the rest of the evening," she said, then forced a laugh she didn't feel.

She watched as Frances left the room and Bernice lagged behind.

"Is everything alright?" her longtime friend asked with concern.

"Everything's fine. I'm just a little worn out. A few minutes rest and I'll be good to go," she equivocated.

"Would you like some company?" Bernice pressed.

"Bernice, I'm fine. Please, just go enjoy yourself," she didn't even attempt to hide the strain in her voice this time. Without further question, Bernice turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Aunt Laura?" Laurie Beth's small voice called for her. Sitting on the bed next to her, she soothed the little girl's hair.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can you lay with me until I go to sleep like my Mommy does?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged," she agreed. Stretching out on the bed on her side, she rubbed the little girl's back, while mulling the disagreement between she and Remington earlier.

Truth was, she didn't feel she owed an apology for 'girl talk' per se. By his own admission, he had shared things with Monroe before he'd spoken of them to her, if he even ever had. In her mind, that was a wash. Likewise, she didn't feel there was an apology owed by Remington for walking in on her conversations with first Bernice, then Bernice and Frances. He'd only, after all, been responding to her request on when to help her back downstairs. It had been utter carelessness on her part, in both instances.

She puffed out a hard breath that ruffle Laurie Beth's hair. If she were honest with herself, he hadn't been wrong in his assertion that he should have been the first to know her mindset on the potential pregnancy. But, what he had no way of knowing is she had only realized it herself while she was speaking with Bernice. It was one thing to know everything would be alright, quite another to actually be happy about the possibilities. She neither felt his anger with her was justified, nor did she believe his reaction was cause for her to be angry. Her embarrassment at being twice caught, a misunderstanding due to lack of information, and they'd taken to their corners. Not a crisis by any means… heck, not even a good argument by their normal standards. She matched Laurie Beth's sigh as the little girl fell asleep, then eased herself off the bed, carefully maneuvering around to sit in the chair next to it. Propping her foot up, she resigned herself to watching the children sleep.


	18. Chapter 18: Expansion

Remington detoured on his way to joining the group of guests watching the football game and instead joined Abigail, Maxie, Veronica and the children where Veronica was reenacting the death scene from _Devil's Detour_. Clapping at the conclusion, he leant Veronica a hand up.

"Still wonderful, after all these years," he enthused.

"Ah, Dimples, you flatter me," she blushed at the praise. Remington leaned down to buss her cheek before joining Abigail in the nearby chairs.

"You seem to have made fast friends with Veronica and Maxie," he observed.

"They are both fascinating women in their own right. I understand it was by your design that they are living together?" Remington tugged at his ear.

"Merely a suggestion that they could be of support to one another," he averred.

"Well, it was a fine idea. I can only hope someone is looking out for me like you were them when I reach their age," Abigail complimented, patting his hand.

"I'm quite certain you won't face the same… challenges Maxie and Veronica have. Frances and Laura would never allow such a thing to happen," he assured. "I'm sure Laura would be the first to agree that you'll always have a home here with us, should you ever need it."

"It's very kind of you to say. But should the time come when I can't live on my own any longer, I plan to enjoy my last days in a quaint retirement community that has numerous activities planned each day. By the Grace of God that will never happen, and I'll live independently until my time comes, as Laura's Grandmother Holt did."

"And your own mother?" Remington inquired as he recalled a conversation between he and Abigail the first time they'd met.

* * *

" _ **I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Mr. Steele, but the truth is, I just cannot bear to tell Laura's grandmother what she really does."**_

 _ **"No? What do you tell her instead?"**_

 _ **"That's she's a dental assistant. With great prospects of marriage. Is that awful of me, to create a complete fiction about someone like that?"**_

 _ **"Sounds more like a family trait."**_

* * *

"She passed, may she rest in peace, in November of '84," Abigail replied.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea."

"Laura didn't tell you?" Abigail asked, clearly surprised.

"We were going through a … difficult… spot," he explained, uncomfortably. "Did Laura attend the services?"

"Of course. She arrived on the red-eye on Friday night, went back home on Sunday evening after the reception. She took it very hard, the poor dear." Abigail paused for a long moment. "Actually, I was quite surprised by how hard, as she and my mother were never particularly close, Laura growing up in LA, after all, while my family was back East."

Remington felt guilt kick him in the shin as he had a sneaking suspicion her upset had far more to do with his betrayal of her trust in Cannes and how… difficult… he'd made things at times after she'd ended them. That she'd been left to deal with the loss on her own? Yet another cost of his deception. It seemed as though, even years later, he was still being made aware of all he'd missed due to no one's actions but his own. The opportunity to comfort, to support her in a way he knew her mother and sister had not, when she'd lost her grandmother, close or not. Presidential primaries in what must have been a rather remarkable gown, for Ford Stevens to remember it more than a year afterwards.

* * *

 _ **"Miss Holt. I have the funny feeling I've seen you somewhere before."**_

 _ **"No, I don't think so."**_

 _ **"Wait, wait a minute, it'll come to me." Then, "Century Plaza Hotel. Presidential Primary, 1984. You were wearing some sort of- provocative gown."**_

* * *

He'd lay odds that she'd spent Christmas by herself since she'd not gone back home. Both of them alone and miserable, she at her most favorite time of the year.

Forget the shin, Abigail's revelation was nothing short that a right jab straight into the gut.

He was still mulling over this latest bit when Frances sat down in an adjoining chair, eyeing him in a way he was unaccustomed to from her. He squirmed beneath her gaze.

"Laurie Beth and Bo are both tucked in upstairs," Frances offered up, then fell silent, her eyes still on him. "My little sister never ceases to amaze me. I don't know how she ever managed to make it up those stairs on her own. It's no wonder she needed to prop her leg up." Remington sat up straight and narrowed his gaze on his sister-in-law.

"She did _what_?" He damned himself twenty ways to hell. He'd been irritated enough with her that he'd not even thought twice when she suggested they take the children upstairs to bed. "Sh-, -ugar," he cursed as he stood. "Frances, if you'd find someone to volunteer to come up to watch over the children in ten minutes or so, I'm going to get Laura settled in for the evening." Without awaiting an answer, in long strides crossed the terrace into the house. He made a pit stop in the kitchen to gather ice cubes in a dish towel, then alternately berating her for being so foolish and himself for being so… so… petulant, he ascended the stairs. Opening the door directly in front of him, he found it empty. When he opened the door to the right of the first, he found his wife, as Frances had described, with her foot propped up on the bed as she watched over the sleeping children. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sat the ice atop her braced ankle.

"Care to tell me what insanity came over you that you'd risk injuring yourself by going up those damned stairs?" he demanded to know. She stared at him a long moment, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"I didn't want to put you out by asking your assistance, not when you were already angry with me," she answered in a voice that bordered on weary. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Not angry… aggravated. And angry or aggravated, you should know better than to believe I'd let you traverse those stairs on your own had I been thinking," he scolded mildly.

"I wasn't about to ask for your help when—"

"Ah, I see, so a bit of pride was at work then, eh? You know what they say about pride coming before a fall, love, and I'd really hate to see that lovely bottom of yours banged up when there was no reason for it." She offered him a faint smile even though her eyes remained closed. "Not feeling well?" She snorted softly.

"Turkey poisoning, more likely," she quipped quietly. Had her eyes been open she would have laughed at his affronted look.

"If you're suggesting that my cooking has made you ill—" Now, she did laugh.

"L-tryptophan, my chafed chef. It's naturally occurring in turkey. It effects some people, others it doesn't. I happen to be among the former, and after… imbibing… I get sleepy," she blinked her eyes open to look at him.

"Then why on earth would you wish to eat it?" he asked nonplussed.

"Because it tastes good and it's Thanksgiving. It's what one eats," she answered in that logical way of hers, while shrugging her shoulders.

"Well, in that case, as soon as someone arrives to relieve you, it's off to the bath with you or need I worry you'll fall to sleep and drown?" he teased.

"Mmmm, I think a bath is just what the doctor ordered. But, might I point out, we still have guests and our presence is therefore required?"

"I'll take care of ridding ourselves of our guests, you focus on keeping that cute nose of yours above the water, eh?" He looked up in response to the light tap upon the bedroom door. "Your relief has arrived, it seems," he announced, standing and opening the door. He couldn't hide his surprise by who had come upstairs.

"Game's over," Donald offered. "Packers won in a stomach clenching end."

"And our wives are threatening to skin us alive if we don't get the kids home to bed," Jason filled in.

"Ah, I see. If you'll all give me five minutes to get Laura situated, I'll be down to see you off."

When the men agreed, Remington lifted Laura off the chair, then handed her the crutches to hold. In short order, he had her stripped down and sitting in a steamy bubble bath, foot propped on the side, sighing in contentment.

"Remember, head above the water, love." When a hum was her only answer, he stilled on the way out the door and turned back around. "Lau-ra."

"I'll be fine, I promise," she assured him. "Go see everyone off and tell them goodnight for me, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all. I'll be back in a few minutes. Remember—"

"Go," she drew out the word in a command. With a final look at her, he left the room.

In short order, the thirteen guests had departed. Bernice had made him promise to tell Laura to call her the following day, so they could get together again before she and Jason returned to New York. Abigail instructed him to let Laura know she'd 'done a better job than she expected', while complimenting Remington at least a half dozen times on the way out the door for the meal, the gathering, and putting up with her daughter's moods. Frances made certain to remind him he and Laura were expected in Tarzana on Sunday, while Maxie and Veronica giggled as their 'handsome dimples' bussed both of them good night on the cheek. Monroe and Jocelyn were last, with Monroe bidding him goodbye until Monday and Jocelyn asking him to remind Laura she was prepared to do the Christmas decorations shopping. When the door closed behind the last guest, he leaned his backside heavily against it. He'd discovered that evening, hosting a small dinner party of family and intimate friends took more out of a person than hosting a party for a hundred casual acquaintances. Still, he wouldn't give up a minute of the evening for those days long past.

Locking up downstairs, and leaving what little clean up that needed to be done for morning, he turned out the lights and ascended the stairs for the final time on the evening. He stopped at the guest room to make up the bed and close the door, then took the time to take off socks and shoes in their bedroom before pulling a pair of his pajamas out of a dresser drawer. Unbuttoning his shirt on the way in the bathroom, he stood staring at the tub, unable, at first, to digest what he was seeing. When it finally clicked in his mind that only Laura's leg protruded from the water, he dropped the pajamas that were in hand on the floor and rushed to the tub, reaching in to pull her above water, praying frantically she hadn't been under for too long…

And promptly found himself, fully dressed, yanked off balance and landing in the tub as his nefarious wife emerged from the water laughing.

"Are you out of your bloomin' mind, woman?" he bellowed. "You scared the bloody hell out of me!" To her credit, she tried to stop laughing, but it bubbled over again and she laughed all the harder at the sight of him, scowling, his legs hanging over the edge of the tub, half of him submerged, half not. After several seconds passed, he looked down at himself and began laughing as well. "If you wanted me to bathe with you, all you had to do was ask," he managed to say, around his own laughter, as he struggled to stand up in the tub.

"Remington Steele never shows up wrinkled," she said, mimicking him in word and voice in what he'd say many a time over the years. "Remington Steele certainly shows up soggy though." She laughed all the harder at herself.

"Does L-Tryptophan make one a raving lunatic as well?" he asked, chuckling, as he stripped down and tossed shirt and pants over the shower door to start drip drying. "First the stairs and then…" he waved his hand in her general direction, "….this?" He climbed into the tub opposite her, absently plucking her foot out of the water and beginning to rub.

"What are you doing all the way over there, big guy?" she asked, pulling her foot out of his hand, and dipping her leg under the water to caress his thigh with her foot. He raised a brow at her.

"Feeling a bit lonely over there, are you Mrs. Steele?" he teased.

"I could use some company, Mr. Steele," she invited.

"Well, scoot forward then," he advised, standing and stepping out of the tub. Her eyes raked over his body from head-to-toe appreciatively, warming his blood as it always did.

"That's not quite what I had in mind," she shook her head, indicating the area in front of her.

"Ah, I see. Planning to take advantage of me in my vulnerable state then are you?" He waggled his brows at her.

"Hmmm, something like that," she agreed, as he positioned himself between her legs and lay back against her. Her fingers burrowed in his hair to massage his scalp. Closing his eyes, he exhaled deeply.

"What have I done to deserve this, love?"

"Beyond spending two days cooking for fifteen people, playing host tonight, and somehow minimizing my contact with Mother? Not a thing I can think of." His hand absently caressed her propped leg, as he considered how to approach the topic he had in mind.

"Your mother imparted some information this evening that I found… unsettling," he led in.

"Oh?" Her fingers slipped down to massage behind his ears and beneath his hairline, then alternated to stroke his neck. He hummed low in his throat.

"You know I can't think when you do that, love," he managed.

"I know," she smiled.

"Lau-ra. I want to speak with you." The timber of his voice told her whatever he had on his mind was important to him. Her hands slipped away, to return with a washcloth. Lathering it, she stroked it down an arm.

"About?"

"I wasn't aware your grandmother passed two years ago," he opened. Her hand stilled and she closed her eyes. She wondered, briefly, if memories of those months after Cannes would ever not be accompanied by a feeling of cloying loneliness and angst. She forced herself back into the present, her hand moving the washcloth over his skin again.

"It was a… difficult time for us…" she pointed out quietly.

"Difficult or not, do you think I'd have left you to make that trip by yourself, to deal with it on your own? We've always been partners and friends, first and foremost," he reminded her.

"Were we? Partners, yes," she qualified. "But friends? I seem to recall my shutting the door on even that," she reminded him, morosely. "I don't think you even knew who or what I was anymore, after my decision in Cannes, then my behavior with Butch, later Clay. You were angry, distancing yourself from me. Oh, you were friendly enough on the surface, at least most of the time, but I could see the… disconnection… in your eyes, a little more with each passing day." Rewetting and freshly lathering the washcloth, she moved it to his chest.

"Yes, I was both of those things. Angry with you, myself for putting the idea in your head in the first place. Distancing myself? Most certainly. It was too…difficult… being with you every day, yet not being able to have the little you'd allowed up until then – our evenings together, being permitted at least to hold you. Still, just as you were willing to travel with me to England when you believed Daniel to be ill, how could you think I wouldn't have done the same when your grandmother died?" She sighed quietly behind him.

"I didn't have the right to ask that of you, don't you understand? I drew the lines. I ended our personal relationship. It wasn't fair for me to say 'I need you right now, so can you forget that until now I've been very clear _I don't need you in that way?_ ' Every time you looked at me, distancing yourself or not, that hurt, that…that…that _longing_ was there. I had _no right_ to ask anything from you. I'd given any claim to that up." Her voice had risen as she'd spoken, become stricken.

"Have you any idea how it felt to hear Abigail share how upset you were and to know neither she nor Frances have the slightest idea how to be of comfort to you… that you'd been left to deal with it all on your own?" He was becoming agitated as well, even as he recognized the pointlessness of it all now, given none of it could be undone.

"I wasn't upset about my grandmother. I barely knew her for God's sake. I mean in theory I was, she was family that was gone." She blew out a frustrated breath. "I was upset about _you._ Her loss only served to underscore it all. Time lost with you that I could never get back. Time ahead of me that I wouldn't have with you. I _missed you._ I wasn't wrong to be upset that you'd lied to me… again, that you hadn't trusted me. But almost the second I'd ended our personal relationship I wanted to take it back. The cost, the penalty had been too high."

"Then why didn't you just toss your sodding rule out the window instead of leaving both of us to suffer?" he demanded to know.

"I didn't know how. You were so far away by then," she shook her head, the taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, calming. "The way you fawned all over Sandy Dalrymple, then later implying you were in bed with Margaret Cable. I thought you'd finally had enough, moved on, despite that look in your eyes. It wasn't until we'd returned home from the Caribbean, when you'd purposefully cross the line I'd drawn, that I realized there was still hope. And it wasn't until I watched Buckner's men, realized I could have lost you, that I found the backbone to say what I'd wanted to say all along." He blew out a harsh breath, relaxing against her again as she resumed soothing the washcloth across his skin.

"Still, I wish I'd been there…" he said with regret.

"I think it was in _both_ our best interests that you weren't. I couldn't hide from the truth there, like I could here at home. I think I _needed_ the physical distance to admit to myself how much I needed you present in my life as partner, friend and whatever it was we'd been trying to figure out for two years." She set the washcloth aside, allowing her fingers to return to massaging behind his ears and at his hairline. "I don't want to talk anymore."

"Well, so long as you're doing _that_ you can be assured we won't," he commented with a hum. Her hands feathered down his neck, traced the width of his shoulders, then slid down his chest to his abdomen.

"And if I do this?" She felt the tremor that coursed through his body at her touch. Upping the ante, she drew a path with the tip of her tongue across a shoulder, before locking her mouth over his skin and suckling.

"If you're seeking to relax me, Mrs. Steele, I can assure you, this is _not_ the way to go about it," he murmured as his body roared to life.

"And if I do this?" She dropped her lips next to his ear, so her warm breath would caress it and whispered, "Make love with me, sweetheart. Make love with me so slowly that we're left trembling from exhaustion. Bury yourself so deep inside of me that you don't know where you end and I begin." She slowly drew her hand up his abdomen, across his chest, as she nibbled along his neck until she felt his body twitching under her touch. "Show me how much you love me, and I promise to show you _exactly how much_ I love you."

Prying himself away from her touch, he climbed out of the tub, then leaned over and plucked her from the water, his lips covering hers as he straightened. She wrapped her hands around his neck, her fingers playing with his hair as he feasted on her lips, teasing, taunting, promising what was to come.

"My God, babe, the things you say sometimes," he breathed against her neck as he lowered her to the bed, he following. Molten amber eyes looked at him, sparkling with a mixture of need, love and humor.

"Our sheets are going to be soaked," she observed, as she drew him down to her.

"Aye," he agreed, cupping her face and thumbs stroking her cheeks. "And if even an inch of them is left dry or unwrinkled, I haven't done my job," he whispered before sealing his mouth to hers.

They lost themselves in sensation, as fingers trailed across soft curves and trim muscles and lips whispered over skin, sometimes choosing to send the other over the precipice but more often choosing to leave one another dangling on the edge, hungering for the moment they found their way together. The first time their bodies merged it had been preceded by a mixture of tenderness and laughter, and when bliss came it left them only craving more. Their hands and fingers resumed touching, caressing, hungry mouths tasting skin left salty by their prior exertions. When they came together the second time, it was only when Laura beckoned Remington to slip inside of her with the words he was helpless to resist: "I love you, sweetheart." Fingers tangled together, her legs wrapped around his hips, he buried his head in her shoulder and neck as he moved with long, tormenting strokes within her, that left them, as she had promised, trembling in the aftermath and so exhausted, that almost before their mutual climaxes subsided, they fell into a deep slumber, limbs tangled together.

* * *

Remington woke in the deep night to find a pair of amber eyes staring at him, as delicate fingers carved gentle pathways across his furred chest. For long minutes, his eyes remained riveted with hers as he basked in the feeling of her touch. Only when Laura rolled away from him, tugging him towards the shower did he fully rouse. Then, showered and bedding changed, she waited for him to recline against the headboard before stretching out on the bed and resting her head in his lap while claiming his hand for her own. He closed his eyes, recognizing how much he'd been missing, craving this time together.

"Remington?"

"Hmmmm?" She smiled as his fingers contracted when her finger traced a line on his palm.

"Tonight, what you walked in on with Bernice? You weren't wrong, but you weren't right either." He opened his eyes to peer down at her.

"What do you mean?"

"You _should_ have been the first to know that if _I am pregnant_ , I'm happy about it. But you were wrong to believe I intentionally shared my feelings with Bernice first."

"How so?" He buried a hand in her damp hair to toy with the curling locks.

"I'd inadvertently let it slip that I was late. It was only while we were talking that I realized somewhere along the way I'd gone from… accepting the changes a pregnancy would bring to simply being… happy… that I might actually be carrying the child you and I created together." His hand left her hair to lay against her flat stomach. He chuckled lightly as he shook his head.

"Not even five years ago, finding out I'd somehow allowed a child of mine to be conceived would have been anything but a cause for celebration. Oh, I'd have stayed, done the best I could by the child, but not a day would've passed where I wouldn't have known they deserved far more than the likes of me to call Da, a far better life than I could offer them."

"And now?"

"Now?" He chuckled again and his face lit up with wonderment. "Now, I can offer our child a name, a home, two parents who love one another beyond reason… a true family. Perhaps even a Da he or she can be proud of one day." He lifted a hand to rub at his chin. "All that I never imagined possible."

"You really want this, don't you?" she asked dropping his hand and laying her hand on top of the one on her stomach.

"As much as it shocks even myself? More than I've ever wanted anything, other than you," he admitted quietly. He considered her at length. "Are you really happy about this, Laura?" She closed her eyes and searched her heart, finding only peace there.

"I am," she nodded as a smile lit her face. "It'll mean we need to sit down and figure out how to address all the changes ahead of us..." she paused and made a face. "Staring Tuesday, as a matter of fact."

"Why Tuesday?" he asked with a puzzled glance her way.

"We see Dr. Davontanelli on Tuesday. I'm sure the splint will come off as planned, but being pregnant will likely effect my recovery and physical therapy in some manner," she pointed out. He hummed in acknowledgment.

"What others?" Laura shoved herself up and stretched out on her side next to him, then waited until he slid down and they were lying face-to-face.

"Expanding the office." He brows furrowed as he reached for her hand and tangled her fingers with his.

"In what sense?"

"The attorneys in the office adjoining ours are moving to their own building in March. I was thinking we expand our lease and merge the two suites, at our expense. Even Hastings has to see it as a win for himself. If we ever vacate, suites the size of the one I'm suggesting are in high demand for larger accounting, advertising, and legal firms."

"Should I ask who is going to inhabit this additional office space?"

"Mmmm. Mildred will be getting her investigators license next Fall. What do you think about having her focus solely on the white collar side of things… asset traces and the like? I don't want her on the streets full time due to…" she scrunched her face, "… her age, not that I'll ever tell her that, and you better not either!"

"Of course not, but I share your concerns. I'd hate for her to confront a suspect and be unable to get away. The mere thought makes me shudder." She nodded in agreement.

"Which means we'll need a new guard at the gate, so to speak." He did a double take at her twitching brow.

"Lau-ra, precisely what bad news are you about to impart?" he asked warily.

"It's not necessarily bad news…"

"Lau'ra," he drew her name out warningly.

"If – and that is an if – Bernice does move back to LA and if – yet another big if – she decides she wants to work, I'd like to bring her back—" she spat out quickly.

"Lau-raaaaaa."

"Think about it. She knows your secret. We'd never have to worry about her discovering it or revealing it. Just think on it, that's all I ask." He eyed her at length.

"Are you saying I have a voice in the matter?"

"You do," she confirmed with a nod of her head.

"And what happens should I dissent?" He caught her gaze with his and held it.

"Then we start interviews," she answered succinctly.

"Just like that." He continued to watch for any hesitancy, any deception.

"Just like that," she confirmed.

"Anything else?" he asked, drawing a smile from her, since he hadn't outright dismissed the notion, at least not yet.

"Yes. I think we need two investigators, whether two that we train from scratch or one senior and one in training." His eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with concern.

"And what role would they play, precisely?"

"Both would be cross trained in security, investigative and white collar. You and I would pick and choose the investigative cases we wanted to handle personally, then they could split the remainder as well as assist you on the security side and Mildred on the white collar side." She blew out a slow breath, the thought of handing over anything to anyone other than Remington giving her a nice case of the heebie-jeebies.

"Are you prepared to do that?" She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Not at all," she said, opening her eyes to connect with his. "But I also want the freedom for us _both_ to be able to take a month or two off, at least for the most part, when the baby arrives. And then, as he or she gets older or _if_ we decide to expand our family, that we have the ability to be there for all the important events. Which means…" He reached out to swipe her hair over her shoulder.

"It's time to expand," he finished for her.

"Yes."

"I can see it in your eyes, there's more." She reached over to lay a hand against his cheek, her thumb stroking it.

"Your dream? Playpen in the office? Daycare downstairs?" He hummed his understanding. "I'd like us to consider altering it slightly."

"It was only a dream, love," he qualified. She smiled, and raked her hand through his hair before settling it back on his cheek.

"True. But if we take on the suite next door, it provides an office the duplicate of your own, on just the opposite side of your wall and next to that office, another the size of the one I currently use. How would you feel about adjoining doors, as we have now, and turning that last office into a nursery?" She sighed deeply. "I don't want our child growing up in a daycare, Remington. I didn't start an agency so I could have both a job and family one day, to simply to turn my child over to someone else to raise. I just can't get past the feeling that he or she needs to be with _us_ as much as possible for that first year, maybe two. Then when they need more – more space to play, more time in the backyard, just more – we hire a nanny so at least they are in their own home." He lay staring at her, his eyes flickering back and forth across her face for so long she grew nervous.

"You never cease to amaze me, Laura," he told her somberly. "Only a few short days ago you were terrified by the prospect of a child arriving so soon. And in the days since? Somehow that magnificent mind of yours has managed to create a plan in which our family is given as much weight as your Agency."

"More weight, Remington," she corrected quietly. "Because if it ever comes down to having to choose between our child and the Agency, our child will win _every_ time. They will never once doubt their place in our lives. We'll be sure the sins of _our_ fathers, which we were forced to carry whether we wanted to or not, will not be visited upon our children. They will always know they are loved, they are safe, and _they_ are what's most important."

"My God, Laura," he breathed, sliding an arm under her and drawing her near until her face pressed against his chest and a leg slipped between his, "what in the hell have I ever done to deserve you and this life we have?" She leaned her head back to look at him as her arm wrapped around his side, so a hand could stroke his back.

"I could ask the same question of you. I think, Mr. Steele, the answer might just be that we deserved to finally find the happiness neither of us ever believed would be ours." She yawned deeply, then managed to pose one more question as sleep threatened. "So, will you tour the suite next door with me on Monday then draw up plans for the proposed renovation.

"I will," he agreed readily.

Remington tugged her tighter to him and pressed a hard kiss to the top of her head, allowing him to dwell on all had been said, as he caressed her into sleep. Only when Laura's soft sigh said she'd drifted off, did he allow himself to follow, a smile lighting his face.

(TBC)


	19. Chapter 19: Traditions

Chapter 19: Traditions

Friday morning dawned bright and clear, the air holding just the slightest of chill at forty-nine degrees, preceding what was predicted to be a wonderfully mild day. The perfect start to the perfect day after Thanksgiving… if, that is, not for the frantic pounding that was taking place at their front door. A bleary eyed Remington pushed himself up on an arm to look over Laura's shoulder at the alarm clock, then growled deep in his throat when he saw the time: seven-thirty-five.

"Who in the blue blazes is banging down our door at dawn?" he griped. Sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Laura shrugged in answer, a smile playing on her lips at both his pique and exaggeration.

"There's only one way to find out," she said with her ever-present logic. Slipping on her robe, she reached for her crutches then waited on her husband to don his robe before she began the trek to the stairs. Her grouchy husband picked her up with ease, grousing the entire length of the stairway about people needing to understand what a decent hour consisted of when one was off work for the day. Rolling her eyes, she patted him placatingly on the shoulder as he put her down.

"It'll be fine," she assured him, then abruptly changed her mind when he swung open the door to reveal her frenzied sister.

"Frances, do you have _any idea_ what time it is?" Frances pushed past Laura and half-walked, half-jogged through the living room on her way to the terrace doors.

"Of course I do, Laura! And I have not a moment to spare if I have any hope of being back in Tarzana by eight-thirty for Danny's football game," she answered in an exasperated voice.

"He has a football game at _eight-thirty_ on the day after _Thanksgiving_?" Laura queried again, as Frances bent over to feel around the sofa cushions. "Frances, what _are_ you doing?"

"Donald thinks he left his wallet here. All of our credit cards are in it and we're supposed to start our Christmas shopping as soon as Danny's game is over," she bemoaned, as the phone could be heard ringing inside the house. "I don't know what we're going to do if we don't find it," she worried, her voice rising an octave.

"Frances, Donald's on the phone," Remington called across the patio while scraping a hand through his hair. Frances rushed across the terrace and into the house to get to the phone, while Laura followed at a much more sedate pace behind her, stopping in front of her out of sorts husband. Looking up at him she wrinkled her nose.

"I'm sorry—" she began to apologize.

"You're not responsible for your sister, love," he cut her off, then scrubbed at his face with both hands before weaving his hands through his hair again. Her teeth nibbled at her lower lip as she flashed a dimpled smile and raked his body with sultry brown eyes. There was nothing more splendid in her eyes than a Mr. Steele, hair tousled and sticking up this way and that, scruffy faced with a day's worth of beard growth, wearing a pair of pajama pants and a silk robe parted to the waist. "On second thought, given how you're looking at me as though you're a starving woman and I'm your next meal, I may have to thank her," he mused, wagging his brows at her and cupping her face in his hands to taste her lips.

Frances chose that moment to emerge from the house, giggling like a school girl when she caught them in the clinch. Laura rolled her eyes at her husband when he broke off the kiss with a glower in someone's direction.

"Oh my, someone's not a morning person," Frances teased. "Laura, Donald found his wallet in the pants he wore last evening of all places. I have to go or I'll never make it back in time. We'll see you Sunday," she reminded, as she spun on her heel and rushed from the house. Laura could only shake her head as she watched her sister leave. She blew out an agitated breath and rolled her eyes one last time for good measure.

Following her into the house, Remington closed the doors behind them, then followed behind her towards the stairs. His hand reached out to guide her to the couch, the idea of catching a few more winks there suddenly holding remarkable appeal, having nothing whatsoever to do with the fact his lovely wife wouldn't have to awaken him again when she was ready to go back downstairs for her morning coffee. As she often did on weekend mornings, she indulged his whim. On many a morning since they'd returned from Greece, she gone downstairs to retrieve a cup of coffee, then would situate herself, back reclining against the headboard of their bed, next to him. There, she would relax and enjoy the newest novel that had caught her interest or laying out in her mind her plan for the day ahead, while he slept beside her, an arm slung across her lap, keeping her near.

Today, she watched as he stripped off his robe, then stretched out on the couch. That he'd already forgotten his plan to ravage her spoke of how tired he was. Leaning against her crutches, she tossed him the afghan draped across the back of a chair, then sat down near him. Removing her robe, she lay down next to him, tucking her backside into his front. She silently laughed and mentally shook her head, when nimble fingers loosened all but one button on his pajama top before draping the afghan over them. He sighed with pleasure as he wrapped an arm around her, his hand sliding through the opening of the shirt and resting on her bare skin. Within two minutes the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, told her he'd fallen back to sleep. Tired herself after a long night of love making and talking, she rested her hand on top of his and allowed herself the luxury of slipping back into her dreams.

It seemed her eyes blinked back open mere minutes later, the smell of bacon and coffee luring her from her slumber. Laura didn't bother checking for Remington behind her, the scents wafting through the house confirming he'd roused some time ago. Sitting up, she reached to rebutton her shirt, to find that had already been done by a stealthy hand. Wrapping herself in her robe, she found her way to the kitchen where she perched on a barstool, admiring her husband as he poured egg mix into a pan in preparation for completing the omelets he'd prepped. He sprinkled a handful of vegetables and cheeses into the pan then crossed the room to buss her on the cheek, before returning his attentions to their meal.

"Showered, dressed, and cooking? How late is it?" she questioned.

"Ten forty-five, give or take a few," he answered. "Have we any plans on the day?" She watched him for a long second, his sidelong glance telling her he had something in mind.

"I'd like to get the tree up today. It's a tradition in our family that the tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving. Why? What do you have in mind?" she inquired as he sat her plate in front of her, before dropping both coffee and orange juice on the counter in front of her as well.

"Nothing more than a quiet evening in, just the two of us. Dinner from Chez Rives, a soak in the hot tub, massage afterwards?" He looked up at her from under his lashes. "And a promise." That raised a brow.

"What kind of promise?"

"Phone off the hook, doorbells left unanswered. No plans for the future of the Agency. No discussions of decorations, what to do about the upcoming holidays, business that needs attending to." He sat his plate and cup of tea on the counter next to hers and stepped behind her. Brushing aside her hair, he pressed his lips against her neck and lingered there. "I need you, Laura," his breath warmed her skin when he spoke before he sat next to her at the counter.

"Alright," she gave the word extra length. "I promise. Is there something on your mind?"

Remington tugged nervously at his ear. When Frances has so rudely awakened them earlier he'd been in the middle of a vaguely disturbing dream, one of those dreams in which you don't remember the specific details when you woke yet left you feeling slightly off-balance, a bit jumpy. He was still trying to recall the dream when he'd pulled Laura down with him to sleep on the couch. As soon as his eyes had closed, the dream had picked up where it had left off. The second time, he'd forcibly roused himself and intent on taking mind off the foreboding feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach, he'd eased himself off the couch and retreated to shower then the kitchen where so often he found his own form of solace. Instead, he'd dwelled until the point of near-panic. As the years of their dancing near one another only to back away had shown, Laura was not the only one with a gift of nursing her fears and insecurities, until something that should have only been a twinge of concern became a portent of disaster.

"It's ju—" His words were cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing, drawing a frown to his face. Laura started, a smile lighting her face.

"I forgot!" She all but lunged off the barstool, and would have landed with full weight on her injured foot had Remington not grabbed her around the waist in just the nick of time.

"Easy there, love. Let's not undo all the healing that's begun," he scolded mildly. She flashed a pair of dimples at him and offered no apology, instead grabbing at her crutches to answer the door. With a shake of his head, he followed, swinging the door open on the second ring.

"We have a delivery for Laura Steele," the burly man at the door announced. "Where would you like it?" he continued without preamble.

Thirty-five minutes later, the dining room table was laden with boughs and wreaths of spruce awaiting decorations, and the towering twelve foot spruce was ensconced in the entry way in by the curve of the stairway. On more than one occasion, Remington had found it necessary to land a glower one on or another of the delivery men when he would find their eyes on his wife instead of the business at hand. Perusing her himself, he made a mental note that the woman shouldn't be answering the door in just a silk robe and his pajama top which emphasized her small waist, the delectable curve of her bum, and the fantasy inducing twitch of her hips. Completely oblivious to the hungry looks and her husband's warnings, Laura stood back and smiled with satisfaction. The position of the tree allowed visibility from both the front door and the living room and would be the first thing they'd see each morning as they came downstairs. She clapped her hands together, an accomplishment while leaning on her crutches. _Now to decorate,_ she thought giddily.

She slanted a look at Remington, preparing herself for the gripe that was sure to follow her request. "Would you mind getting the boxes marked 'Christmas Decorations out of the storage closet in the garage, then bringing in the few bags I have in the car? Oh, and the stepladder," she added as an afterthought.

"My pleasure, _after_ I warm our meal and we eat," he answered, reaching out and laying a hand lightly against the small of her back, encouraging her towards the kitchen. "Then, might I suggest we take you upstairs to dress for the day while I retrieve everything?"

"Alright," she agreed, watching as he placed a plate in the microwave to warm. "Before trimming the tree, I'd like us to sit down and plan out the decorations for the rest of the house. I told Jocelyn I'd have a list ready for her by two, and that won't give us much time." Removing her plate from the microwave he sat it in front of her, then began to warm his own food.

"Have any ideas yet?" She nodded as she took a bite of her food.

"I do. But I'd like your suggestions as well." Removing his plate from the microwave, he rejoined her at the counter, taking a bite of his food before answering.

"The only thing I've ever decorated for the holidays, love," he reminded her, "was the tree in my flat for you last year." She smiled remembering how surprised and touched she'd been when she'd arrived at his apartment on Christmas night.

"You'd never decorated for Thanksgiving at all, and you had some wonderful suggestions," she pointed out. "You're naturally creative, have an eye for the details. Much of what we plan now will be used for years to come, the start of our family traditions, even. We'll simply do what we do best: combine style, with warmth and timelessness." He nodded as he cleaned the last of his food from his plate. Standing, he cleared their plates, glasses and cutlery from the counter and placed them in the sink. He'd wash them while Laura prepared for the day.

Thirty minutes later, boxes and bags stacked in the foyer, dishes cleaned and put away, and she dressed in a pair of white jeans and lightweight red sweater whose deep v-neck showed off her freckles much to his pleasure, they sat down on the couch and leaned over the coffee table to plan out how to decorate. Keeping with the style of their home, they both agreed an emphasis of whites, silvers, and reds were demanded. Clear lights as opposed to colored would be in order as well. They were equally dumbfounded by the sheer number of feet of garland that would be required for their joint plan, not to mention the volume of poinsettias that would be needed. Still, by the time the doorbell rang at five before two, they had their significant list ready for Jocelyn. At Remington's direction, Jocelyn could pay whatever the cost to have all purchases delivered to the house the following day.

"I think, Mr. Steele, we're going to have to do something for Jocelyn while we're in Cannes or Paris to thank her for all her help."

"I agreed," he nodded, making a note to himself to mull the idea over. "Now," he asked, clapping his hands together, "where do we begin, Mrs. Steele?"

"Lights," she answered with an emphatic nod. "The only part of decorating the tree that I find tedious and I'm afraid it's all up to you this year." He quirked a brow.

"I'm sure you'll make it up to me later," he offered, suggestively.

"Only if you're a very good boy," she retorted. He barked a laugh, his lips lifting with amusement. Leaning over, he placed a peck on her lips.

"Well, here we go." He climbed the stepladder with a strand of uncoiled lights held in hand. She smiled as she openly admired his shapely bum that was only enhanced by the jeans encasing it.

Laura fed Remington the lights, plugging them together and making sure each light properly lit. Still, with their combined efforts it took nearly an hour to light the tree from tip to base, and by the time they'd hung all the recently purchased ornaments and two additional boxes of ornaments from her loft, it was nearing six o'clock. They took a break when Jocelyn called to relay her successes on the shopping front, receiving heartfelt gratitude from Laura in return. Afterwards, Remington called Claude at Chez Rives to order their dinner: Coquilles St-Jacques, followed by a winter salad with buttermilk dressing; Blanquette de Veau as their main course; and, of course, a rich, whipped, chocolate mousse for a certain young woman. A final call to Fred had their chauffer dispatched to pick up their meal.

Laura had saved a box of her personal decorations for last, and next to it sat a small bag she'd brought down from upstairs when she'd dress. When they readjourned by the tree, she sat down on the floor, swinging her legs to the side. Remington watched as she laid her hands almost reverently on the box. Something about the way she touched the box, the look on her face, had him lounging on the floor, facing her. She took a deep breath before looking up at him through her lashes, uncertainty coloring her face.

"My grandmother loved Christmas," she began, a smile lighting her face, "Not just liked, but _loved_. She's the reason, more than anything else, that it's my favorite time of the year." Lifting the lid of the box, she sat it to the side. "She began a tradition when she had my father: a special ornament to commemorate each year of his life. Some of them were bought in stores, others homemade if she couldn't find exactly what she was looking for." Her hand shifted through the box as she spoke. "After Frances and I were born, the tradition became my father's to carry on." She lifted a tissue wrapped ornament from the box and opening the paper stared at the contents for long seconds. "About a month after he left, I invaded my parents' attic and snuck the ornaments into my room." She laughed softly. "I wanted anything he had ever given me close… so he would be, too, at least in spirit." She closed her eyes and nodded her head. "When I finally accepted he'd not just left my mother, but had completely walked away from me… Frances, as well… I nearly threw them all away. Then I realized, these were as much about my life, my grandmother's traditions as they were about him. I returned them to the attic. Eventually they moved with Mother back to Connecticut. Christmas before last, I brought them home with me." She handed him the ornament she held in her hand.

"'Baby's First Christmas, 1956'," Remington read aloud, flashing a toothy smile. The ornament was a white baby carriage trimmed in pink. Laura nodded then taking it from him, returned it to its tissue paper then the box. Placing the lid on the box, she moved it aside and reached for the bag. His brows drew together at the action.

"We're not hanging them on the tree?" he asked, perplexed.

"No, we're not. Those ornaments are a part of my past." She held out the bag to him. "This is the present and the future… if you wish to keep the tradition alive. It's up to you." He took the bag from her while holding her eyes with his. She'd carefully blanked her face yet in her eyes he saw insecurity, doubt and hope colliding. From the bag he removed a fragile, clear globe of Waterford crystal. Turning it in a circle, examining it closely, he found something had been etched on each side of the ball. On one side,

 _The Steeles  
Founded 6-24-1986_

and on the other side,

 _Our First Christmas  
12-25-1986_

The globe held countless strips of silver paper, each with something different written on them. He turned the ornament in his hands, reading each strip that was visible to peruse.

' _the greatest gift I've ever received.'_

' _your eyes have been my compass'_

' _I will not run from you but to you'_

' _I'll remember to dance with you under the stars'_

' _I see a hero in you every day'_

' _we can take on the world'_

' _I'll open my arms and be your place of solace'_

He swiped at a hand at his face, overwhelmed. As hard as she'd tried to hide it across the years, Laura was the most sentimental person he'd ever known. Who else but she would keep an Atomic Man decoder ring for two decades? Would see a key to Descoines's storage locker as a treasured gift, kept safely in her jewelry box? Would carry a picture of the two of them standing on either side of the Agency doors, taken shortly after he'd arrived in her life? And if the slivers of paper contained within the ornament were what he believed them to be, the amount of thought she'd placed into their first ornament together was… he couldn't even find the words.

"Are these…?" he began, then stumbled and cleared his throat, speaking no further.

"Our vows from our wedding in Greece," she nodded, then squirmed underneath his steady gaze. "I got the idea from one of the magazines we've been looking at, just altered it slightly," she explained.

"I've no words…" he told her honestly. Lifting her hand in his, he held his lips to her knuckles for a long moment while keeping his eyes locked with hers. "You're extraordinary, Mrs. Steele," he told her, that belief heard threading through each syllable spoken. Her brown eyes lit with pleasure.

"You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Steele," she answered quietly, turning the hand that held hers over and pressing her lips to the palm. Standing, he assisted her up, holding her waist as she found her footing on the crutches. Once steady, he somberly hung the ornament on the tree, then stepped to her, clasping her face in his hands and drawing her lips up to his. She laughed as he uttered a curse against her lips as the doorbell sounded.

"Fred? Dinner? Remember?" He leaned in again.

"I've something else altogether in mind at the moment," he breathed, before capturing her lips again. She squirmed away from him, laughing.

"I'm afraid it will have to wait," she grinned as he glowered. "Paybacks, Remington," she told him jauntily. His face blanked and brow furrowed slightly as he tried to determine to what she was referring. When it came to him, he looked at her with astonishment.

"Hardly the same thing, Lau-ra," he expelled. "I was preparing a holiday meal for fifteen." She shrugged carelessly.

"None the less…" she allowed him to fill in the rest for himself as he swung open the door.


	20. Chapter 20: This

Chapter 20: This

While Remington had fully intended for he and Laura to retire to the hot tub after their meal, stomachs sated and feeling a bit drowsy after the rich meal, it was the fireplace that beckoned in the end. A trip upstairs netted an armful of comforters which he spread in layers before the fire. With the addition of throw pillows robbed from couch and chairs and he'd created a cozy nest for them. They'd stretched out on their sides facing one another, positioned perfectly so that the Christmas tree and it's twinkling lights could be seen past their feet, and the fireplace before them. _This_ was what he had truly wanted this evening. Romance and intimacy as finest, calling up memories from years gone past.

"This reminds me of your apartment," Laura commented a bit wistfully, the light from the fire reflected in her eyes. Remington reached out and brushed her hair back over her shoulder, letting his fingers linger to caress her neck.

"Do you recall the first time we lay before the fire like this?" She rolled her eyes upwards, trying to recall. Her lips lifted in a soft smile as she returned her eyes to him.

"At the conclusion of the Ratooi Games case. Instead of dinner arriving, Arnoch did. You couldn't have been here for more than a month…" she mulled.

"Three weeks, to be precise." His thumb slowly trailed over her full lower lip. "Three weeks of wondering what it would feel like to have your lips against mine, what you would taste like. I'd all but given up I'd ever know, to be honest."

"You must not have been too impressed," she observed wryly. His brows lifted in surprise.

"However, do you come up with that?"

"I'm a very good detective, Mr. Steele, and you left behind a multitude of clues in the form of Felicias, Miss Taplingers and other assorted bimbos who came through the office as though on an assembly line." He reached for the hand she wasn't leaning against and drew it to his lips, bussing the backs of her fingers.

"I could say likewise of yourself, in that case," he countered. Her brows shot up at the implied accusation.

"I don't recall having a parade of men marching through the office," she rebutted.

"Ah, but not only did you freeze me out cold for a week solid after that kiss, you also made it a point to tell me you believed I'd leave your life in tatters." He eyed her speculatively, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. "Besides, I should think you'd owe Miss Taplinger a debt of gratitude, not your malice." Her brows raised again and her mouth fell open, shocked by his words.

"How on earth do you figure that?" she demanded, voice rising.

"Because your pique over Miss Taplinger made you slip," he pointed out.

* * *

" _ **Well, you certainly don't expect me to sit at home while you-"**_

" _ **While I what?!"**_

* * *

Laura laughed loudly, sarcastically at his reminder of that conversation in his office. "Oh, ho, didn't that conversation actually begin with your reference to my overpowering lust for cotton candy?" she challenged.

"A valid observation given you seemed to be eating it by the bushel while a man lay dead in my bedroom."

"Then by my calculations the debt of gratitude owed is you to Creighton Phillips as, by our own prior admissions, it is he that convinced you of what you just attribute to Miss Taplinger." Remington furrowed his brow and scratched the side of his nose, feigning consideration of her words.

"I've just now realized what truly awful taste you have in men. The felonious Phillips, the wanker Wilson, the simpering Smith, the behemoth Beamis, the foul Freddie –"

"Enough of the alliteration, Mr. Ste—" She stopped mid-thought, her eyes flashing white hot and skin flushing. "Freddie? Freddie Smith? I was distracting him so that _you_ could get away if you recall. It was purely prof—" He gave a snort of disbelief.

" _Disgusting_ , is the description that comes to mind," he interrupted. "Besides, the blighter got further with you in two minutes than I had in two years," he commented, intentionally tweaking her further, lips twitching as he smothered a smile. He did so enjoy watching his wife when in the midst of a fine fit of temper. Laura's eyes narrowed when she caught his attempts to hide his amusement. _Well, one good turn deserves another,_ she thought. _Tit-for-tat, Mr. Steele, tit-for-tat._ She stretched back out, propping a head in her hand, making it a point to scowl with displeasure at him.

"Well if Freddie Smith goes on my list of poor decisions, you need to add Millicent Fairbush to yours." He pushed up on his elbow and looked down at her.

"Oh? How so? Need I remind you I was pressed to escort her for that dreadful publicity stunt _you_ arranged?" She jabbed him lightly in his chest with a pointed finger.

"Correction, a publicity stunt _you_ enjoyed far too much, as indicated by Fairbush's tongue down your throat on the tennis courts and her hands all over you. How is that any different than me with Smith?" Her question let him flummoxed. He'd had no idea she'd been witness to that kiss on the tennis courts, ordered though it was by the campaign's coordinator. In short order he was laughing. No one could turn the tables on him quite like Laura Holt.

"Touché," he conceded, leaning in to kiss her when she wagged her brows in satisfaction at him. Rolling to his back, he gave her hand a tug. She surprised him by turning to lay her head on his stomach, then taking his hand in hers, a variation on their talks in bed. Folding his other arm behind his head, he stared at the Christmas tree. "I might come to enjoy Christmas at this rate," he mumbled more to himself than her.

"Oh?"

"If it means lying in front of a fire, as we are now, while watching the tree we decorated together, it's very possible." Laura gave a quiet laugh as her the tips of her fingers traced his hand. He frowned suddenly as he realized why it seemed the tree was not quite complete. "Love?"

"Hmmmm?" Removing his arm from behind his head, he adjusted he pillow, then reached for a strand of her hair. When she turned her head to look at him, he indicated the tree with a nod of his head.

"I don't claim to be an expert on the trimming of trees, you'll understand, but, if memory serves, shouldn't there be some sort of star, angel, something along those lines, at the top of the tree?" She turned her head, never releasing his hand, and watched the play of the lights.

"The tree topper is the centerpiece of a Christmas tree, and something that is often used for years, decades even," she returned her full attention to his hand. "I was thinking we might take the time to pick out, together, a topper that represent the two of us, not just myself." He hummed thoughtfully.

"We could do that. Next weekend after you've rid yourself of the crutches?" he suggested. She squeezed his hand in answer. His hand smoothed over her hair, fingers raking through the strands for several minutes, as she continued to whisper her fingers over his, while he pondered a thought which had occurred repeatedly to him over the years. Finally, resolved, he captured a lock of her hair and fingered it.

"Laura, can I ask you something?" At the hesitance in his voice she tilted back her head to look at him.

"Of course," she answered simply, a line forming between her eyes. He grazed the back of his fingers against her cheek, drawing a smile.

"Have you ever considered trying to find your father?" Her fingers against his hand paused and he watched a deep hurt flash across her eyes before she blanked her face, retreating behind those walls she hid behind less and less often now. She returned her attention to his hand and her fingers began to move again.

"There's no need," she finally answered, her voice rising and falling on each syllable. "I know where he is… at least where he was eight, nine years ago." Now it was his fingers that stilled.

"You've never mentioned you found him." He pondered the implications of that – because it had gone badly, adding yet another injury to her stockpile, or because it was just one more part of herself to withhold, keep him at arm's length?

"I didn't," she answered succinctly. She shook her head and sighed. "Letters. I found letters after my grandmother died. From him to her." His hand froze again, hovering just above her hair. Deciding he'd learn more from his silence than with any questions, he held his tongue and returned to the soothing action of toying with her hair. After a long minute, she let out a puff of frustrated air.

"He'd been writing Grandmother since he left. In all those years, not a single word to Frances and I. From what I could gather from the letters, Grandmother brought us up several times during the first couple of years because in his letters he'd mention that Frances and I would be fine, we didn't need him. Frances had mother and I was _strong_. We didn't need him, not like…" she stumbled, her face contorting, blinking hard and fast.

"Not like what, love?" She struggled for control and only spoke again once she found it.

"Not like his new wife, her boys. A widow and her two fatherless sons. _They_ needed a father, _they_ had already lost so much." She took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly. "In one letter it was clear she'd told him about my… breakdown… had asked him to come back, that I needed some sort of…" she shook her head, searching for the right word, "… closure… assurances maybe… at the very least his presence in some manner, no matter how peripheral it might be. He politely declined. It wasn't a good time for him. His wife and sons needed him there. New marriage, new home, new life." Despite herself, a tear trickled down her cheek. "I was just a little sad, I would get over it. He needed to focus on his new family now." She remained quiet at length as he struggled with what he should do – comfort, speak, continue to hold his peace? "He hadn't been gone six months and he'd remarried, completely started over. Frances and I had become the epitome of that old adage, 'out of sight, out of mind."

"Laura, come here," he told her quietly. She shook her head.

"I'm alright," she said in that high-low tone she used when she was anything but.

"Well, I'm not." He grasped the hand holding his and gave it a tug. Relenting, she sat up, the lay down, curling into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. "The man's a damned fool and doesn't deserve you," he told her vehemently. She smiled against his chest, her arm stretching over his torso, so she could stroke his side.

"I couldn't help but compare him to the Earl, Daniel," she admitted. He raised a single brow, intrigued.

"Oh, and why is that?" She shrugged against his side.

"The Earl spending three decades hoping to find his son, so anxious to call you his own without ever knowing you at all. Daniel finding you at fourteen, then doing whatever he could to fix the toll wrought by years of neglect and abandonment. Whereas my father knew me for sixteen years and, in the end, I was disposable." She laughed a quiet, sad laugh. He bussed her hard on the top of her head and tightened his arm around her. He'd gladly pummel the man should he ever have the misfortune of crossing his paths, just as the man had pummeled the heart of his own daughter.

"Are Frances and Abigail aware of those letters you found?" he asked, suspecting she wouldn't have told them.

"No. They really didn't apply to Mother, he never spoke of her at all." She absently thrummed her fingers against his side. "Frances and my father were never particularly close, but to find out he'd replaced his own children with someone else's? The boys he always wanted at that? She would have been devastated. I didn't see the need to do that to her when she'd already accepted his absence long before."

"You're a remarkable woman," he said quietly, words that he said repeatedly over time, words he hoped she'd one day believe and not see simply as a compliment. "Always bound a determined to protect those you care about."

"It's an instinct we seem to share," she observed.

Conversation halted. Watching the lights of the Christmas tree, they allowed themselves to simply enjoy the simple pleasure of keeping near, their hands caressing comfortingly. Remington closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Laura's small hand against his ribs, his waist, his stomach, the feel of her back and hair under his own hand.

It was this, these moments that he had craved, almost to the point of desperation at times, over the last years. Just he and Laura, tucked away from the world at large. There were days he'd believed he'd gone mad. For more than a decade, his entire adult life at that, he'd looked forward each day to the nightlife that lay ahead. Yet, from the start, Laura had evoked visions of quiet nights spent by the hearth, talking, laughing, dancing… kissing.

It's what had disturbed him about the dream he'd had in the morning hours. Oh, it had started out pleasant enough, wonderfully as a matter of fact. Laura, slightly rounded with his child. The two of them planning the nursery at home, overseeing the expansions of the office she'd suggested. From there it had veered suddenly downwards. His days spent in the far too busy office, working twelve, fourteen hour days. Late nights spent on stake outs with a new 'partner', virtually unknown to him. Arriving home in the deep of night to find her asleep, her pushing him away in her own exhaustion even as she slept. Harried and snapping at him in the rare moments they saw each other. The distance between them growing ever wider with each passing day. Eventually each of them finding excuses to avoid the other. The sense of loss had been overwhelming, so much so that he'd had to force himself from the dream.

He wasn't sure what had put the idea in his head in the first place. His regret that since they'd arrived home their nightly talks seemed to have gone the way of the wind? Possible. That her kidnapping had served as a harsh reminder that she was at the center of all he cherished most in life? Possible as well. The perpetual fear that always lurked just under the surface that he'd done nothing to earn this life and for that reason it would be taken? Also possible. Yet he suspected it was as simple as he'd believed they have a couple of years to immerse themselves in their lives as newlyweds before having to share that precious time with a wee one. He'd waited four years for her to be his and his alone, and he was not quite ready to share her.

 _Bloody selfish, Steele,_ he berated himself.

Laura's hand against Remington's side slowed, then stilled, as she felt him growing tense against her. Pushing up on an elbow to look at him, she found his eyes closed, his face strained. Immediately she recalled his comment to her in the kitchen that morning, 'I need you, Laura.' She stroked a cheek with her hand until his eyes opened and his blue eyes met hers.

"I could have sworn you mentioned something about a massage this morning, Mr. Steele." He shook off the thoughts he been dwelling on and flashed her a smile.

"That I did, Mrs. Steele," he agreed as he took to his feet. "Oil or lotion?"

"Your choice." He nodded and bounded towards the stairs. "Grab our pajamas while you're up there?"

"Back in a moment."

While Laura waited, she slipped off her shoes and set them off to the side. Pulling up onto her crutches, she shimmied out of her dress pants, a nifty little trick while she tried to remain erect. True to his promise, Remington was back with a bottle of massage oil, a clip for her hair, towels and their pajamas in short order.

"Strip down to your shorts, love," she directed. He wasn't sure which sent a shiver of pure pleasure down his spine: that she'd unwittingly referred to him in the term that had been used exclusively by him towards her thus far, or that she'd just made it clear he was to be the recipient of the massage, contrary to what he intended, though he suspected it was the former. He managed to make the brain which had turned to mush function enough to shake his head at her. She eyed him speculatively, as he stripped off his shirt, then began to remove his jeans.

"Alright," she slowly agreed. "To my underwear or all the way?" He raised a brow in her direction.

"Surely you don't think after such an offer, I won't take you up on seeing that glorious bottom on full display, do you?" She rolled her eyes in his direction.

"A misstep on my part then?" she queried.

"Good fortune on my part, more like," he corrected, as he tossed his jeans onto the chair with the rest of their clothes, leaving him only in a pair of black briefs. Her eyes raked over his body, only a glance required to stoke the embers of desire that always lingered between them into a full blown fire burning its way through her. Stepping to him, and balancing carefully on her crutches, she raked her nails lightly down his chest and stomach, then turned her hand palm up to cup his covered length and squeeze gently as he liked. His breath caught and his tongue flicked at his lips, but he removed her hand and drew it up to his mouth, bussing the back of it.

"A lovely offer, one I'm sure to take you up on before the night is over." He pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder. "But for now, I need you under my hands, love." _Need._ It was the second time on the day he'd used the term, confirming, as she'd suspected, that he was troubled. Without another word, she wriggled out of her panties, and with some assistance from him, lay face down on the towels he'd spread out over part of their makeshift bed. Once she was settled, Remington straddled her back, keeping most of his weight on his legs. Laura reached back and clipped up her hair, as he poured oil into his palm.

She sighed softly as his slick hands sought her shoulders and began to lightly knead. She bided her time, waiting to see if he'd volunteer what had him seeking the solace of her body, allowing herself to relax under his talented fingers. One by one he uncovered knotted muscles she hadn't even been aware were bothering her until the tension released.

"The crutches, I'd wager," he told her quietly, when he found a particularly tender spot under her left scapula.

"You may be right," she agreed, just as quietly.

She rested her head on her arms as he worked his way down her back. Once he'd relieved each ache revealed, with the consideration he always exhibited, he used the final towel to wipe the remnants of the oil from her skin. Moving to her side, he leaned over to run his lips over a bare cheek of her bottom, solely to enjoy watching her twitch with desire.

"Not fair, Mr. Steele," she lightly admonished, squirming beneath his touch.

"Mmmm," he agreed, "but far too enticing to resist." For good measure he lathed the sensitive spot on the small of her back with is mouth before blowing lightly on the wet skin. He watched as her lovely bottom tightened, smiling when she quietly groaned, needing more but knowing he was only teasing.

"Really, really, not fair," she managed to pant.

"Never the less, it needed to be done," he chuckled. "Turn over, love." She wriggled over, positioning a pillow under her head so she could see him wherever he began on her body, while he simultaneously propped up her foot.

He took time to appreciate how comfortable she was in her nudity before him now. Oh, she'd never been shy, not when they made love nor when they showered or dressed. But the first couple of times he'd given her a whole body massage, her skin had pinkened almost immediately and stayed that way throughout. Now, she carried on conversations as though fully clothed. Pouring massage oil into his palm again, he picked up her uninjured limb and began at the foot. She wasted no time initiating the conversation she'd hoped he would start of his own accord.

"Talk to me, Remington." His eyes flicked to hers then returned to her foot. He sighed heavily.

"The last seven months have held many changes, challenges, for us." She pushed up on her elbows and cocked her head to the side.

"They have," she agreed. He held silent for several minutes as he worked his way up her calf, then thigh.

"With many changes on the horizon, it seems," he finally expounded. He leaned over and brushed his lips across her stomach. "Possibly one that will change our lives in ways we can't even begin to predict." Her heart clenched. Lying back, she lifted a hand to her brow, waiting to hear that he'd changed his mind, wasn't ready for this at all.

"Yes." Seeing her hand move to her brow, he chuckled silently. He should have known she'd go immediately to the worst. "Which, it seems you need reminded, _I am thrilled about_ ," he told her pointedly as he eased her hand down. Her only answer was a roll of her eyes. Forgoing any further massage, he rubbed the oil off her leg then stretched out on his side next to her, his hand stroking her stomach and waist, still needing the contact.

"So, changes…" she nudged. She shivered when his fingers drifted over her ribs.

"This can't change," his fingers traveled down the length of her arm. "It's too important." Gathering her in his arms, he rolled to his back, then helped her straddle his abdomen, mindful of the healing ankle. Goosebumps trailed down his arms and his body tremored at the feeling of her sitting atop him for the first time in far too long. His hand founds the gentle curve of her waist and hips, tracing and retracing her form repeatedly. She leaned forward to stroke his shoulders.

"I don't see us getting tired of making love any time in the next couple of decades," she told him. He shook his head and grasped her cheeks in his hands, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Not just making love, Laura. Taking time like this for just the two of us. To lay before the fire and talk. Evenings in our living room dancing." He tangled his fingers in her hair, his blue eyes darkening with the intensity of his emotions. "Our talks in the evening before we sleep." He blew out a breath getting frustrated. "We can't… I need… bloody hell." Releasing her, he scrubbed at his face with both hands. She drew her fingers through his hair.

"Rem, our time together is as important to me as it is to you. Don't you know that?" Dropping his hands from his face he lay them on her hips and stroked, considering what she'd said.

"I do. But, we've a long-standing habit of making everything _but_ us a priority and I'm worried we may find ourselves right back there again with all the changes ahead."

"That's not been true for well more than a year. We figured out somewhere around London that _we_ need this time, this… connection. I know I do. I look forward to our time together, even if that time is just lying together watching a movie, taking a nap, or sharing a bath." She leaned forward to touch her lips to his. "Maybe I need to remind _you_ , _Mr. Steele_ , but I happen to _like_ my husband, very much. I need his presence as much as he needs mine." She knew she'd found the right words when the tension around his eyes and jaw released, and a smile lit his face that reached his eyes. His hands caressed her back.

"Ah, that's good to know, _Mrs. Steele_ , given your husband happens to like you as well." Drawing her to him, he rolled them over again, until she lay on her back. Stretching out beside her, he drew a flat hand down her body from neck to hip. "Not to mention he _lusts endlessly_ for this luscious little body of yours."

"Plan to do something about that, big guy?" A seductive smile lifted his lips as he waggled his brows at her.

"I do indeed, love. I do indeed." Bowing his head he captured her lips with his, showing her with his kiss exactly what he planned to do.

(TBC)


	21. Chapter 21: Sexy

Chapter 21: Sexy

The Saturday following Thanksgiving once again found Laura and Remington working hand-in-hand to turn their home into a Christmas wonderland fit for Santa Claus - or one wife that loved the holiday to distraction. Thanksgiving decorations that covered mantles, sat on hearths and festooned tables were carefully packed away. The autumnal floral displays throughout the house and terrace were repotted and sent to a local domestic abuse shelter – Laura's idea as she couldn't bear to just throw them away and at least at the shelter they would bring a little color to the women and children's lives for a short while. Following her lead, Remington suggested he pack up the substantial leftover's from their Thanksgiving meal and send them along, then giving it more thought took their personal checkbook and wrote out a check for five-thousand dollars. The check was placed in an envelope, addressed to the shelter's director, and provided a brief note.

" _Christmas is on us. Happy Holidays. ~ The Steeles"_

His wife bestowed a toe curling kiss on him, showing him exactly what she thought about his generosity and kind heart.

Poinsettias replaced the autumn flower arrangement in the urns on hearths, the terrace and the base of the stairway. Potted poinsettias flanked two lighted, white wicker reindeers positioned near Laura's piano. In front of the house, a single reindeer lit with clear lights was positioned near the front door, poinsettias surrounding it. A family of five reindeer were the focal point of the front yard, while alternating lanterns and poinsettias lined each side of the walkway all the way to the front door. Wreaths, painstakingly hand decorated with red and silver balls, flowers, ribbon and a bow by Laura herself, were centered on the front doors and each window that faced the front of the house. The bannister of the stairway inside was decorated with a thick spruce garland from top to bottom, heavily laden with the same red and silver balls, flowers, and bows as the wreaths outside. Equally decorated boughs of spruce were laid across mantles, upstairs and down, and on the top of Laura's piano, red and white pillar candles sitting among them. And, hanging from the mantle in the living room, two white stockings, flocked with white faux fur and trimmed with silver thread.

After a full day's work, the couple sat together on the couch in the living room, admiring their handiwork. The rest was very brief. Laura nudged Remington up from the couch.

"Dinner with Bernice and Jason, remember?"

"Lau-ra," he groused, mostly on principle.

"Save it for someone who's not immune to your whining," she chastised. He came to a halt and turned towards her on nimble feet.

"Remington Steele does not _whine,_ " he informed her snootily.

"Well, Remington _Chalmers_ Steele has his moments," she qualified. He grinned at the use of a his full name, as she knew he would. What she hadn't predicted was that he'd step in and gather her close, and kiss her so tenderly and lengthily in that way which curled her toes and breathless. Smugly, he stepped back to peer into her dazed eyes.

"Mmm… so long as you're not resistant to my… charms." Her eyes cleared immediately and she smirked at him.

"I seem to recall resisting your charms for nearly four years," she reminded him. "And unless you get us upstairs to change, buster, you'll find out just how well verse I still am in that when the need arises."

"You wouldn't," he exclaimed, appalled by even the notion.

"Are you willing to risk whatever plans you might have for tonight to find out?" she challenged, brows raised and a gleam in her eyes. He barked out a laugh and swung her up in his arms towards the stairs.

"You can be a cruel woman, Mrs. Steele," he told her, bemused.

"Only when I need to keep you in line, Mr. Steele." He laughed again, and was still smiling when they retired to their room to get ready for the evening.

* * *

Saturday evening was a rousing success and was followed by a lazy Sunday morning spent in bed, Remington only departing long enough to whip them up a breakfast of cranberry nut muffins, scrambled eggs and fruit. By the time they departed for the Pipers, Laura was relaxed and looking forward to the visit.

The afternoon and evening passed pleasantly enough. Frances was eager to show Remington and Laura how she'd staged The Steeles' new-old outdoor furniture on her back patio. She fairly glowed under their compliments. The Piper children quickly laid claim to their Uncle Remington, which was par for the course at these bi-weekly dinners, as was Laura huddling in front of the television with Donald to watch the final quarter of the Los Angeles Rams v. New York Jets game, with the Rams putting up a solid win, much to her pleasure. Donald was still riding high on the Packers win Thanksgiving evening, so was more than happy to root on Laura's home team with her. When the game ended, Donald departed for the barbeque grill on the back porch. Dinner would be simple fare that evening: hamburgers or hotdogs, accompanied by homemade potato salad, baked beans and a selection of potato chips for those who wanted them. The meal would be eaten at the picnic table outside. Throughout the meal, Laura found herself smiling with amusement as she watched her persnickety gourmet wolf down two burgers, complimenting Donald on his barbequing skills throughout the meal. Eventually, he'd leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"I don't see what you find so amusing. I'm quite certain this will be regular fare, once we have children of our own." He stealthily pressed a hand to her abdomen, grinning when she flushed. "I may as well learn to enjoy it."

After dinner and cleanup, the extended family adjourned to the den so the children could enjoy "A Charlie Brown Christmas" while the adults spoke. With a persistent tug on Remington's sleeve, Laurie Beth's favorite uncle stretched out on the floor next to her, where they colored side-by-side in the Christmas coloring book Frances had purchased for her earlier in the day as a reward for her behavior at church that morning. When asked what she wished for Santa to bring, Laurie Beth talked his ear off about the ponies she was hoping to find under the tree Christmas morning. As she watched the scene unfold, unconsciously she pressed her hand to abdomen as she was reminded what a remarkable father he would be, despite his fears otherwise.

"Laura, are you listening to me?" Frances's voice broke through Laura's reverie.

"Um, sorry, what were you saying?"

"I was telling you that I simply don't know what I'm going to do on Saturday. Donald is proctoring practicals, and Mindy and I are supposed to be attending the Mother-Daughter tea at the Junior League. Danny will be at Andrew's working on their science project and both of our baby sitters are already committed elsewhere. Mindy's been looking forward to the tea all month, and is going to be absolutely be heartbroken when I tell her we can't go!" Frances wrung her hands then dropped the bomb. "Could you and Remington watch Laurie Beth?" she asked, speaking faster and faster. "I wouldn't have to drop her off until noon, the tea is from two-thirty until five which means I could be at your house no later than six to pick her up."

"I don't know, Frances," Laura hedged. "Remington and I had planned to go Christmas shopping on Saturday since I'll finally be off the crutches—"

"Oh, Laurie Beth simply _adores_ to shop. It makes her feel like such a big girl! She'd love it and be absolutely no trouble at all!" Frances pressed.

Laura glanced in Remington's direction, hoping for his quick mind to create a ready and plausible excuse. Instead, the man only shrugged a shoulder in her direction. Instinctively, she knew what she'd hear if she pulled him aside: 'It's family, Laura.' Finding no help from that corner, she lifted fingers to brow, looking for a way out. Then, watching Remington return to coloring and conversing with Laurie Beth it occurred to her that she'd never questioned how he would fare as a father, but questioned incessantly whether or not she had what it took to be a mother. Her attempt at getting her feet wet with the Gallen children had been an unmitigated disaster. Ten months ago when Remington had volunteered them to care for her nieces and nephew overnight while Frances and Donald worked through some issues, was also nothing to write home about. In both cases, they'd taken on multiple children at once. She had to wonder if trying her hand with just _one_ child might answer some of the questions she had about her own parenting readiness.

"We'd be happy to have her over for the day," she found herself saying, then promptly wondered if she'd lost her mind.

By the time they'd walked out the front door she was prepared to turn right back around and rescind the offer. Knowing his wife as he did, Remington kept his hand firmly on her waist and guided her to the car, chuckling all the while. He received an elbow in his side when he'd released her to open the car door, but all-in-all felt the amusement he'd derived from her panic well worth the cost.

* * *

"We're _not_ buying Laurie Beth a pony for Christmas, Remington," Laura told him firmly as they were getting ready for bed that evening.

"Be reasonable, Laura. It's the only thing she could talk about all evening—"

"Reasonable? Me? Be reasonable? You're talking about buying our six-year-old niece a living breathing pony when that isn't even what she wants!" she retorted.

"Of course it is. She talked my ear off all evening about wanting her little pony for Christmas." She nearly growled in frustration.

" _My Little Pony,"_ she corrected.

"Precisely. Her little pony." In the bathroom where she was taking off her makeup Laura tossed her hands up in the air. "Did Laurie Beth tell you what color she wanted her pony to be?"

"As a matter of fact, pink with a blue and white mane and tail," he called back from the closet.

"And you didn't think that odd?" she challenged.

"Don't be absurd, Laura. _Of course_ I found it odd. Reminds me of that ridiculous poodle on board the plane during the Platinum Airlines case last year. I really hope you're not suggesting we—"

"It's a _toy_ , Remington," she finally shouted, finally losing all patience with him. " _My Little Pony is a toy!_ Made of plastic, and nylon tails and manes. They come in every color of the rainbow. What they are _not_ is living, breathing animals!" In the closet he scratched the side of his nose, baffled.

"Well, that doesn't make sense. Why would any little girl want a plastic pony?" he returned.

"Because they are the 'it' toy for little girls right now, that's why." He considered this while removing his pants.

"Are you certain?" he called to her again. "Not that I'm questioning your knowledge of plas—"

" _I'm sure, Mr. Steele_!" She yelled. "There has been at least one commercial about them during every movie we've watched on television the last six months."

"No need to get snippy, Mrs. Steele," he rejoined, as he tossed pants and underwear into the hamper. "No one pays attention to commercials, except to curse their very existence as they interrupt quality programming."

"Why did I marry you?" she lamented, tossing her brush down on the bathroom counter and pressing the fingers of both hands to her forehead, as he entered the bathroom.

"Because you love me," he answered, stepping behind her and lying his hands on her shoulders. "And, if I recall the conversation last evening correctly, because you like me," he reminded her as he eased the collar of her robe back over her shoulder. "And what was it you said to me years back?" he asked, pretending to ponder. "Ah yes, because you find me very… 'sexy'." His lips trailed over a bared shoulder.

"I did not! I have never used that word in _my life,_ " she denied vehemently.

"I assure you, you did just that. The Dannon case?" She shook her head at him.

"Never happened," she said confidently.

"As we walked around our fountain one evening?" She shook her head again.

"Sorry…"

"As you extoled all the virtues of your fictitious Remington Steele, that I'd begun living up to?" he prodded. She frowned at him in the mirror as a distant memory began to take fabric.

* * *

" _ **You know, you're rapidly becoming the man I envisioned when I created Remington Steele. Honest, courageous, caring, good humored… Sexy."**_

* * *

Closing her eyes, she covered her face with her hands and groaned. Dropping her hands, she looked at him in the mirror again. "Someone must have slipped something in my drink at the memorial service," she suggested.

"I think not," he denied with a flick of his brows. "As a matter of fact, unless my memory fails me, you only recently used that very word to describe a specific part of my anatomy as explanation for accosting it during a round of golf," he mused. She didn't need more of a hint than that this time.

* * *

" _ **I merely couldn't resist caressing that very sexy bum of yours, displayed in all its glory in those pants during your swing."**_

* * *

"I can't be held responsible for that. I was under extreme duress at the time… saying things out of character because of the stress." He laughed out loud at her excuse.

"Duress?" She nodded her head, lips twitching with amusement in the mirror as she looked at him.

"I was being stalked at the time. Can't hold me to a thing I said," she shrugged. He raised a brow at her in the mirror.

"Ah, I see. So, are you saying, then, that you don't find me… sexy?" Using the counter, she turned herself around carefully, forcing him to step back at the same time. She eyed him critically from head-to-toe, requiring every bit of the self-control she'd acquired over the years not to let him see the desire just looking at him stirred with her. She gave a careless shrug.

"You're fairly attractive," she answered with a straight face.

" _Fairly attractive?"_ he repeated in mock outrage. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Fine, fine. I'll give you…" she tapped her fingers against her lips while perusing his body again, "…more attractive than the average man." This time he grunted with dissatisfaction at her assessment.

" _More attractive than average?_ " Quick as a cobra's strike, he grabbed her by the waist and hauled her over his shoulder as she shrieked with surprise, then carried her into the bedroom where he tossed her on the bed amid much laughter on her part. He pounced, stretching his length atop of her, and securing both wrists in a hand. "No touching, Mrs. Steele… until you confess the error of your ways."

"You're forgetting, Mr. Steele, my iron will when it comes to your attempts at seduction," she reminded him.

"Ah, yes," he grinned down at her, "all those years of practice, wasn't it?" She wagged her brows at him in answer. "Well then, we'll just have to see if I've learned these past months how to smelt that will of yours, eh?" he asked, leaning down to suckle beneath her ear.

"I guess we will," she agreed breathily, reaching for his hair only to find his vice like grip rendered her arms immovable, drawing an arrogant chuckle from him as he prematurely declared himself victor in his mind.

And, thus, the war on her senses had begun. Time and again, Remington took her to the edge of ecstasy only to leave her perching perilously on its edge before moving on, determined to turn in her to a mass of quivering flesh while extracting from her the acquiescence he sought. The battle waged amidst soft sighs and whispers, amongst much laughter and oaths muttered more frequently as time marched on and he left her aching for release again and again. Then, at last, the need to feel this man she loved merging his body with her own triumphed, and she capitulated he was, indeed, 'sexy'… although she vehemently refused to liken his image to that of a Roman God. They spoke one another's names as his body at last joined hers, then words, except quiet Gaelic vows of love, were lost to them all together as they pressed towards Nirvana together.

It was these escapades that were to blame for neither Remington nor Laura remembering to set the alarm before falling into slumber within one another's arms, as well as being equally responsible for them sleeping on well-past the sunrise. They'd likely have slept until mid-morning, spooned around one another in warmth and comfort as they were, if not for the phone's incessant ringing which roused them. Unlike Saturday morning, when he'd condemned their early morning invader for waking them, the call catapulted him from the bed towards the shower to turn it on and then the closet to gather clothes as Laura rolled over to answer the demanding appliance.

"Hello?... Oh, good morning, Mildred," she said into the mouthpiece. "Yes, a late start…"

"Be sure to tell Mildred, the responsibility is yours, unable to keep your hands of me last evening and all," he teased, laying his suit on the bed before turning towards his dresser.

"Shhhh…" She frowned at him and hastily covered the mouthpiece with her hand, only lifting it to speak6 again. "Tell Mr. Scott that Mr. Steele has been unavoidably been detained in traffic on his way from the airport—"

"Mmmm. Where have we been? Some remote island where it was just the two of us? Ah, I have it. The Devil's Playground, partaking of all its tacky sinfulness—" he teased as he leaned over to buss her cheek while tossing his underwear in the vicinity of his suit.

"Shhhhh!" she chastised more firmly, then rolled her eyes at Mildred's tittering on the other end of the line, which earned a reproachful, "Mr. Steele!" from her. He shrugged carelessly in her direction.

"The key to a good lie is the details. I can't very well tell the man I was on a business trip if in fact we were off on a romantic getaway, indulging in one another." Laughter openly sounded in her ear from the receiver this time.

"Tell him Mr. Steele's car had a flat," she told Mildred somewhat desperately, "It's being resolved as we speak, and he'll be there very shortly." Hanging up the phone, she planted fisted hands on her hips and scowled at her husband. The sight of his lovely wife, hair mussed from sleep and their antics the night before, sitting in their bed with the sheet dropped around her waist revealing a full array of glorious freckles, a pair of pert breasts and a deep red mark along her collarbone where he'd claimed her during their lovemaking, all whilst in a fine pique at that? Well, it did a man's heart good and was a fine way to start the morning. He stepped to her and swept her up out of the bed, carrying her towards the shower.

"No time for dawdling this morning, Laura. Your antics last night already have me running behind," he grinned. Her mouth fell open in outrage.

" _My_ antics!" she demanded, swatting him on his shoulder as he set her on her good foot in the shower enclosure and stepped in behind her. Kneeling down he removed the splint from her healing limb then closed the shower door behind them.

"No need to apologize. We'll just let bygones be bygones in this case, eh?" He gave her a toothy grin before turning so that she stood under the running water, his hands on her waist to help her maintain her balance.

"Bygones?! _Mr. Steele,"_ she drawled in warning.

"I do love how you say my name in that lilting voice of yours. 'There's a magnificence in you. A magnificence that comes out of your eyes, in your voice, in the way you stand there, in the way you walk.'" His lips feathered over a sudsy shoulder. Laura threw up her hands and rolled her eyes ceilingward, giving up. He was in rare form this morning and when he was in mood such as this she'd found over the years there was little use in fighting it as it would only rev him up all the more.

" _The Philadelphia Story,_ Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn… ummmm," her brain stalled on further details.

"MGM, 1940," he finished for her. He nuzzled her neck. "My Tracy," he breathed next to her ear. She indicated she was done bathing, and he helped her to turn to hold his hips for balance as he did likewise.

"Planning to divorce you, am I?" she teased as he lathered his hair.

"Should you, we would only have to remarry for life to imitate art," he pointed out.

"Third times the charm," she countered as he rinsed his hair then fixed bright blue eyes upon her.

"Perhaps for our silver anniversary." He quirked a brow at her, as he lathered his body. "Sans the divorce, of course."

"Ahh, but then life would fail to imitate art," she retorted. His eyes held hers as he rubbed himself down then rinsed quickly. He stepped forward to embrace her, cupping the back of her neck with a hand.

"Sod art. You're mine. I'll not take a chance providence pays to close attention the next time." His lips settled over hers, lingering long enough to convey his ever present desire for her. She hummed softly against his lips. With great strength of will, he broke the kiss and gave her fanny several pats, never aware of the brown eyes which regarded him. He couldn't help but tweak her one last time before he prepared for work. "You're positively insatiable, Laura. Really, one would think you of all people would keep in mind a client awaits," he chided, as he wrapped a towel around her, then retrieved her crutches and handed them to her.

"I give up," she muttered under her breath.

"As well you should," he agreed. "I've an iron will and you will not sway _me_ from _my_ course."

"Sleeping in that big bed _alone_ tonight is beginning to hold a remarkable appeal," she told him warningly.

"Mmmmm," he appeared to agree. "But then where will you sleep?" On that parting shot, he left the bathroom to dress while she envisioned wrapping her hands around his neck and squeezing. She pulled the brush through her wet hair, yanking it almost viciously as she put it up in a ponytail. By the time she'd finished the task, he called to her that he'd be back in ten to get her.

True to his word, he reappeared at the appointed time. She allowed herself a few seconds for her heart to pitty-patter at the sight of him and wondered, as she so often did, if she'd ever take for granted what a truly beautiful man her husband was. It wasn't just the way he filled out a suit, although if she allowed herself to dwell on it at any length, he'd take her breath away. It was his heart, his vulnerability, his gentleness, his courage, his good humor. The whole package simply made her blood hum. In an attempt to cover the emotions that had suddenly swamped her, she brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve, before he swung her up in his arms to take her downstairs.

A glance at his watch in the kitchen saw Remington gulping down his tea, even his own charm no defense to running more than an hour behind. Wrapping his arm around Laura from behind, he pressed the side of his head against hers, as his hand caressed her stomach.

"A week's passed, love. Maybe it's time for us to find out one way or another, eh?" He skimmed the elegant curve of her neck with soft lips, then whispered in her ear. "Think about it, that's all I ask." Stepping back he circled to stand before her, dwelling on the delicate features of her face, her uncertain eyes. When she nodded slowly, he answered in a similar gesture. "I'll be home at one to make lunch, confer with the contractor." A single finger tipped up her chin so he could touch his lips with hers. "Tá tú mo ghrá álainn."

With those words, he departed for the office, leaving her pondering the mornings events. Now, at least, she knew the cause for his mood: his seeming belief that a week passing and she still late had reassigned 'might be' to 'likely was.' Shoving that thought aside she instead focused upon the troubling words he'd spoken while they were in the shower.

Raised in the Church though he may have been, he still placed great weight in fate… kismet… providence. How often had he described their meeting as just that… kismet? She'd never taken his comments too seriously, because she, herself, believed you charted your own destiny. The Agency's mere existence was proof of that. The fact they were here, together – had clung, scraped, fought, battled and raged to make it happen – was proof of that. Did he really believe something as capricious as fate had determined whether or not he was worthy of what he had, of what he wanted? That only in giving providence the slip, could he have anything at all? The mere thought troubled her deeply.

For the moment, however, she set her concerns aside. Today was the last official day of her captivity, and she'd spent precious little time on reviewing the files and facts gathered on Roselli. The New Year was quickly approaching and if she stood a chance at all of swaying Remington to her side, of making him understand why she needed to understand… well, the why… of Roselli's obsession with them, she'd need every morsel of time she could muster between now and then in order to construct an argument that even her husband could not dismiss.

Opening up her briefcase, she got to work.


	22. Chapter 22: At Hand

Chapter 22: At Hand

 _December 2, 1986_

Unlike the morning directly preceding it, Tuesday morning saw Laura up at dawn, unable to sleep a second longer, she was so eager to get the day started. After two long weeks, the last day of her forced captivity was finally coming to an end. In a little over two hours, Dr. Davontanelli would remove her splint and simultaneously release her from her gilded cage. Though no assurances had been made, she hoped fervently after today's appointment she'd be able to traverse stairs, ambulate without crutches, to shower without assistance… to dance with her husband. She looked longingly at the bedroom door: to be able to go downstairs and get her morning coffee at will. Stroking her hand down Remington's forearm, she tangled her fingers with his and tucked his arm more firmly around her slim frame. To make love to the man behind her as she'd been unable to do for far too long now.

Two months. For verging on two months since the original injury to the Achille's, her ankle, not she, had dictated far too much of her life. In her mind it was today, not the day of the surgery, which was the beginning of the end of that.

She wriggled around to face Remington, he adjusting to the movement in his sleep, his arm laying over her waist, hand resting on the curve of her bottom, as he wedged a leg between hers. The morning was moving too slowly for her taste, so it was with a wicked gleam in her eye decided on the most pleasant of ways to spend the time before they needed to get ready to leave.

 _Step One._

Tilting her head back, she touched her lips to his, then repeated the action as her hand stroked his neck from collarbone to behind his ear. He stirred next to her and opened a single bleary eye to look at the alarm clock. Closing his eye, he snuggled back under the comforter, drawing her close.

"Won't work," he mumbled. She smiled against his chest.

 _Step Two._

She raked her nails lightly down the length of his back, then flattened her hand to skim over his firm bottom, reversing course so a hand could settle on a cheek and caress. He moaned aloud.

"Not happening," he murmured, knowing all the while it would. There was little better way to start a day than making love with his luscious little wife. "Sleep." She smirked as she pressed up on an elbow.

 _Step Three._

Grazing her fingers over his hip, she moved slowly, ever downward, until she cupped him in her hand, squeezing gently, as she lay her lips next to his ear.

"I want you, sweetheart," she whispered, allowing her warm breath to caress his ear, before her mouth settled over the skin beneath his ear to suckle and lathe. With a groan, he rolled over, taking her to her back as he did so, then stretched his lean body over her petite frame. His lips sought and found hers.

"My wife, the insatiable vixen," he muttered against her lips, teasing her, whispering his lips across hers, never quite alighting, "Thank god." She laughed against his lips at that, and only then did he take true possession of her mouth, his arms sliding underneath of her back and hips, pressing her body tightly to his.

"Tonight you're mine, Mr. Steele," she vowed, sotto voice, evoking from him a moan of pure pleasure at the vow.

"Then I best enjoy that you're mine now, eh, Mrs. Steele?" he posed the question, as his mouth left hers to find the tender skin of her neck.

And enjoy he did while bringing her immense pleasure as the clock ticked away the minutes.

* * *

Remington grabbed Laura's hand and grasped it firmly in his. For nearly fifteen minutes now, he'd listened to the tap-tap-tap of her fingers thrumming against the exam table where she was perched, anxiously awaiting the appearance of Dr. Davontanelli. It was nearly noon, and they'd arrived back at the orthopedic's office forty-five minutes before, after the office had diverted her downstairs to magnetic imaging for a new MRI on the ankle. She'd been irritable and on edge ever since, snapping at him for the least little thing and often for no reason at all.

His own patience was starting to wear thin as well after nearly three hours of her sniping and snarking. Granted, she'd not been informed she'd first have to get an MRI before Dr. Davontanelli could determine if her Achille's was progressing as he'd hoped, but her reaction to this minor blip in the road was a bit extreme, at least in his opinion. _Extreme for most people,_ he corrected himself mentally. He had not a single doubt his tempestuous wife had mentally charted her day ahead: Doctor's at nine, office at ten, lunch at twelve-thirty, end of month financials until three, when the new client would arrive… and so on and so on. That the day was not working out to her liking, thus far, had her seeing red.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered agitatedly for the third time in the fifteen minutes they'd be waiting.

"This is not a calamity, Laura," he tried to placate. "We'll go have a bite to eat after, then go directly to the office from there. What's important is your ankle is healing as it should be, finding out what lies ahead for your rehabilitation and recovery, and getting you back up on your own two feet." His words earned him a dark scowl, which in turn resulted in him scrubbing at his face with a hand and mentally saying a prayer for more patience. His relief was profound when the door swung open and the doctor himself entered the room.

"Well, Mrs. Steele, the news is good, excellent actually," the doctor began without preamble. "The tendon is healing nicely and is actually further along than I'd normally anticipate at this juncture." Pulling up a stool near the exam table, forcing Remington to let go of Laura's hand and take several steps back, the doctor removed the splint and set it aside, then concentrated on manipulating her foot while his sensitive fingers explored the tendon. Several minutes elapsed, before he released her foot and stood to wash his hands. "The exam bears out what I see on the MRI," he turned to smile at her. "How would you feel about losing the splint?" In a whoosh of air, she let out the breath she'd been holding and smiled for the first time in three hours.

"I would like _nothing_ more." With a shrug of his shoulders, the doctor tossed the splint into the nearby waste receptacle.

"Somehow, I thought you wouldn't be opposed," he jested before retaking a seat on the stool. "So, it appears we need to discuss what lies ahead." Laura cast a look in Remington's direction.

"Before we do, I think I should tell you I may be pregnant. I don't know if that will affect anything, but I wanted you to be aware, just in case."

Davontanelli picked up her file and thumbed through it, then set it on his knees before returning his gaze to her. "Your file shows you are using ortho-novum as birth control and a pregnancy test before surgery was negative. Have you been taking your pill as prescribed?"

"Faithfully," she nodded.

"Beyond the Vicodin we prescribed for post-surgery, have you taken any other medications since your last cycle on…" he consulted the file, "…October 26th."

"Not at all," she answered with a shake of her head. Remington took a step forward.

"That's not quite true, love. You were on two antibiotics to treat the sepsis, from the day after we arrived in Greece until ten days after." She frowned, then nodded slowly.

"He's right," she confirmed to Davontanelli.

"And when was this?" She trekked her fingers through her hair before looking at him.

"I started them on the twenty-fourth of last month."

"I see. Which antibiotics, specifically?" he queried.

"Sulfonamide and vancomycin," she provided. With a nod, he closed her file and set it aside.

"Well, that may explain things. Sulfonamide and other antibiotics from the sulfa class have some interesting history with hampering the effectiveness of certain types of birth control, like ortho-novum. In some cases, a pregnancy wouldn't concern me, but in your particular case it could complicate matters."

"Why is that?" she asked, cocking her head out of curiosity. In her peripheral, she watched as Remington rounded the exam table to stand behind her.

"The first round of physical therapy is slated to last eight weeks. By then, you'd be entering your second trimester. Given your petite frame, the weight gain that should accompany pregnancy and that your abdomen will likely distend sooner than a taller, larger woman's would, we might need to make some adjustments in your therapy schedule to consider the changes in your body as you go along." Standing, he patted her on the knee. "But, before we get ahead of ourselves, let's get you a pregnancy test." She felt Remington's hand land on her shoulder and reached up to grasp it.

"Alright," she agreed, elongating the word.

"I'll have a nurse come right in to get you."

Laura could only nod then watch him leave the room. A mixture of anticipation and dread combining to sit like a boulder in the pit of her stomach. The moment of truth was here at hand. Ever sensitive to her moods, Remington circled the table to take both her hands in his then bent at his knees until their eyes were level to one another. He didn't attempt to fool himself, to believe she'd take this moment in stride, believe whatever the outcome was what was meant to be. He'd be lying to himself it he were to pretend it was effecting him any less than her. There was only one outcome he craved and with an intensity that scared him to the core. All the same, this was a role that was familiar to him. He knew his job now was to hold the woman in front of him steady, to not allow herself to overthink the next however long, to push herself into panic, worse, encouraging her to hide behind those lurking walls.

"Alright?" he asked with a calm he didn't feel in the least. Her eyes searched his face for any hidden doubts, and tucked away trepidations. When she found only hopeful anticipation, she visibly relaxed.

"Alright," she agreed with a firm nod and a squeeze of his hands. Their heads turned in tandem towards the door when it swung open. Releasing her hands, he stood to his full height and, observer be damned, bussed her on the top of her head.

"Then up you get," he directed, grasping her around the waist and setting her on feet, offering support until she balanced upon her crutches. With one last lingering glance at him, she followed the nurse from the room, leaving him raking his hands through his hair.


	23. Chapter 23: The Steeles

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 content. If you are uncomfortable with such material or under the age of 18, please wait until next week's installment to continue on to Chapter 24.**_

* * *

Chapter 23: The Steeles

Laura and Remington had stopped for lunch at a little Mexican joint on their way to the office. It was so unlike the places he favored: Chez Rives, L'Ornate, Marty's, Top of the Mark, the Country Club. Most would, in fact, refer to the place as a dive. He'd been introduced to the place by Manuel, the janitor at the Ratooi Games offices, during that case more than four years before. The first time they'd come here, she'd been shocked, honestly. The place was far more suited to Johnny Todd than it was Remington Steele. While she was one never to hesitate to grab a hot dog sold by street vendors as suitable lunch fare, she'd done her utmost not to shrivel her nose in distaste when they'd walked through the doors. It hadn't taken her long to discover why the place appealed to her normally snooty gourmet: Service was fast and the food fantastic. It had since become one of their favored places when work demanded an abbreviated lunch period but they wished to spend some time alone, out from under the probing eyes of Bernice and Murphy, later Mildred.

Due to the numerous delays at the doctor's office that morning, they arrived at Agency with only ten minutes to spare before the new client's appointment. Remington's hand lightly rested on the small of the Laura's back as he swung open the office doors, and followed behind. Mildred, released from the constraints of her cast and crutches the Wednesday prior to Thanksgiving stood, her eyes immediately dropping to the foot of the owner of Remington Steele Investigations.

"Oh, Mrs. Steele!" she gasped a smile widening across her face as she looked up at the younger woman. "Good news I take it?" The young couple shifted their eyes to each other. With a hard blink, Laura diverted her gaze and focused her attention on Mildred. "It's healing better than expected. Boot for another six weeks, physical therapy twice weekly for the next twelve. I won't be climbing over fences for a while still, but no limitations were set." She held out her hand. "Notes on the new case?"

"Andrew Schultz." Mildred handed the file to Laura. "Has concerns his eighteen year old daughter, Greta, is being held against her will in the home of her boyfriend. Mr. Schultz has requested assistance numerous times from the LAPD and has been turned away. The boys down at the LAPD seem to believe it is a domestic dispute between father and daughter, nothing more."

"Anything else?" Laura queried.

"Not a thing," Mildred answered, lifting her hands palms up with a shrug. "Said he'd discuss the 'nitty-gritty' at his appointment."

"Alright, Mildred. Call us in Mr. Steele's office when he arrives. Are the financials on my desk?"

"Does Santa fly a sleigh?"

Turning towards her office Laura rolled her eyes and laughed softly. With a couple raps on Mildred's desk, Remington retired to his office, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down as Laura entered through the door of their adjoining offices. She waited while he propped his feet on his desk, then, resting his arm on the armrests, clasped his hands in front of him before waving a pink slip of paper in front of him.

"If you don't have anything on your calendar, we can do a walk-through of the offices next door after our meeting with Schultz."

"I've not a thing until morning. I've the final inspection of the system at the Gallery, and plan to meet Peter Sampson at his art store directly after. Thought I'd take the Auburn, then come in when I'm done." He raised his brows awaiting her agreement.

"Makes sense. The offices?"

"Of course," he agreed as the buzzer rang. He punched the button on the phone, placing Mildred on speaker.

"Mr. Schultz has arrived for his appointment, Boss," she announced.

"By all means, bring him in," he instructed as he swung his legs off the desk. Buttoning his jacket, he strode across the room to greet the client when Mildred ushered him into the office.

"Mr. Schultz, Remington Steele," he introduced himself, shaking hands with the man before holding out a hand towards where Laura stood at his right. "My partner, Laura Ho—"

"Steele," Laura substituted. To Remington's credit, his surprise by her choice of surnames would not have been noticed by anyone but she. After shaking Schultz's hand as well, she crossed the room to perch on the corner of Remington's desk, while the men made themselves comfortable. "It's our understanding you need our assistance in regards to a situation with your daughter?"

As Laura took the lead, Remington assessed the man sitting in front of them. _Mid-to-late-fifties, takes care of himself, cares about the image he presents to others. Based on his off-the-rack suit firmly ensconced in the middle class. Firm handshake conveying he's proud of who and what he is. Wedding ring on left finger with some wear on it – has been married to the same woman for a long time. A family man. Slightly red rimmed eyes, with bags under them – he's been worried enough of late that sleep is no longer an ally_.

"Greta," Schultz provided. "She turned eighteen six weeks ago. Against the wishes of her mother and I, began dating the assistant manager of a convenience store near the diner where she's been waitressing." He turned to look at Remington. "Saving money to buy a car before leaving for college." Remington nodded his understanding. _Has taught his children the value of earning what they wish to have_ , he mentally added to his running list. "It wasn't just his age, although that is more than a little concerning, there—"

"How old is the man?" Remington asked, interrupting as he steepled his hands in front of himself.

"Twenty-nine." Each syllable was said caustically, spoke as though it were three words rather than two. Remington's eyes rested on the man's right hand which had fisted as he'd spoken.

"Deplorable," Remington said aloud. Schultz visibly relaxed, at least a bit, at the support.

"It is. And Greta's always been so… naïve."

"What else, besides his age?" Laura prodded.

"About three weeks ago, Greta's mother noticed bruises on her upper arm. Her mother was convinced they were left by someone's fingers. Greta denied it and her mother let it rest. Petra, my wife, never even told me about it," he shook his head, "until Greta came home a little over a week ago with a black eye. Not like what you see on the television. You know, the circle all the way around?" Laura nodded her understanding. "Half of the eyelid, along the outside. But clearly a black eye."

"Did she offer an explanation?" This from Remington.

"She lied. Said she was hit in the face with a baseball during gym."

"Well, it's not _entirely_ implausible," Laura interjected. "Speaking as a former baseball and softball player, I've taken a ball in the eye more than once." Schultz narrowed his eyes at her.

"Except they're not playing baseball in gym right now. She's complained almost daily for the last three weeks about the preparation for the President's Physical Fitness test."

"I see," she answered, by way of agreeing with his assessment.

"On Thanksgiving Eve, Petra and I set Greta down. We told her we'd spoken and were in full agreement: she would not see the man again. It became heated, she refusing, we insisting." He dropped his head into his hands. "I ended up telling her what my father used to say to me: It's my way or the highway." He lifted tortured eyes to Remington. "She left."

"Have you seen her since?" Laura inquired.

"Friday afternoon. I followed him home from the convenience store. She wasn't working that day. I waited until he went inside and then knocked. He wouldn't let me speak with her, but she was there. I saw her. Standing at the back of the dining room." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Her lip was split. I begged her to come home, that we'd help her. I could tell she was terrified but she never said a word. Just shook her head no. He slammed the door in my face. I could hear him screaming at Greta through the door that he'd kill her if she tried to leave him."

"The LAPD?" Remington asked. Schultz held up his hands then dropped them.

"Useless. I went straight to the nearest substation after I left on Friday. I was told she's eighteen, an adult, this was a purely family matter. I kept going back until I finally found someone who would listen to me." He reached into his pocket, extracting a business card and handing it to Remington.

"Samuel Gordon." He flicked his eyes to Laura who indicated with an imperceptible shake of her head she wasn't familiar with him either. "Did Gordon take action?"

"I convinced him to do a welfare check. Yesterday morning. He called me a couple of hours later. Told me Greta didn't have any visible injuries, insisted she was fine and in light of that, there was nothing more than he could do. That's when I called here and made an appointment." Remington stood and circled around the desk, cocking a hip on the edge of it next to Laura.

"What are you hoping we can do for you, Mr. Schultz?" he asked. Schultz held his hands out in a plea.

"Help me get her out of there," he rasped. "Whatever the cost, I'll pay it."

"We can't take her against her will, Mr. Schultz," Laura began then looked to Remington for his agreement. He gave her a slight nod. "But we can contact her. If she wants out, we'll get her out." Schultz's relief was palpable.

"Now, we'll need some information…" Remington began.

* * *

The tour of the offices adjoining the Agency was unsurprisingly anticlimactic. As Laura had told Remington on Thanksgiving evening, the offices were indeed a mirror clone of theirs. Thankfully the color scheme, the décor, was significantly different or they may have encountered an eerie sense of déjà vu, wondering if Mulch had pulled another attempt to franchise Remington Steele Investigations.

Upon their return, after Laura directed Mildred to reach out to Albert Hastings and let them know when he was on the line, they holed up in Remington's office as he quickly sketched out a proposal for the newly expanded office. The door currently allowing access between Laura's office and Remington's would be drywalled in, a new door cut between Remington's current office and Laura's new one. The bathroom adjoining Remington's office would remain part of his suite, whereas the bathroom adjoining Laura's would be removed. That space would be combined with the office similar to Laura's in the other suite to make a larger nursery, accessible only from her office. The breakroom in the new square footage would become the new staff bathroom. While their current reception area would remain as is, a large, open doorway would be cut to allow flow into the new space. The reception area on the other side would be built out to allow for two smaller offices and a conference room. By the end of the remodel, the expanded Agency offices would include four standard offices, two executive offices, breakroom, two bathrooms, conference room and reception area. Mildred would be installed in one of the newly created offices, while a trainee/new associate would be installed in Laura's old office, and the office closest to her new one in the enlarged area, allowing for one of the heads of the Agency to be nearby for mentoring.

They had just completed the redesign when the phone buzzed. It had taken a bit of convincing. Laura pointed out that if Hasting's examined the fiasco the Christmas prior without personal bias, he'd have recognize that the Agency was not responsible for the extortion attempt and partial destruction of the building, but was, in fact, to be credited with thwarting it as well as capturing the perpetrators. Remington then wrapped up their case, by pointing out the financial benefits, the high demand for larger offices in this day and time, and that the new expanded area would include two executive suites, nearly unheard and which would command higher cost per square foot. There was, of course, a codicil: since Remington Steele Investigations would pay for all costs associated with the expansion, they would require a five-year lease at their current cost per square foot. By the time they hung up the phone, they were assured they would have a new lease in hand by week's end.

"We make a hell of a team, Mr. Steele," Laura grinned at him, while leaning across his desk, resting her weight on her elbows.

"We do at that, Mrs. Steele," Remington agreed, leaning forward to lock his lips to hers. Both couldn't help but laugh when the phone buzzed at exactly the moment their lips touched.

"The more things change…" she pointed out.

"The more they stay the same," he finished as he punched the button for the intercom. "Yes, Mildred?"

"I have the background check Mrs. Steele requested, Boss." A single brow lifted at Mildred's reference to his partner and wife. It was the third time on the day, Laura had been referred to as 'Mrs. Steele,' instead of the agreed upon 'Miss Holt' – twice by Mildred and once by Laura herself. "Bring it on in, Mildred," he directed before he disconnected.

The door to his office swung open less than a minute later. Mildred crossed the room and handed a sheaf of papers to Laura.

"The man's a bigtime dirt bag," Mildred assessed. "I'm out of here. See you in the morning." With that, she departed as Remington glanced at his watch. Gathering up his sketches, he shoved them into the desk drawer, then, gaining his feet, rounded the desk to stand in front of Laura. His hands skimmed down her arms, then rested on her hips.

"It's a bit after six, love. Why don't we call it a day? We can review what Mildred's dug up over dinner." Leaning her forehead against his chest she slid her arms under his and around his waist, nodding. It was the first chink in her armor he'd seen since she'd slammed up those walls hours before. A hand skimmed up her back to bury in her hair, as his head lowered for chin to rest atop her head. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply his scent. They stood that way for long minutes until she tipped her head back to regard him with doleful desire.

"Rem…" It was said so softly he barely heard it, but the emotions in the depths of those amber eyes he adored said it all. He bussed her on the forehead before stepping away.

"Give me a moment," he requested, leaving his office. He locked the Agency doors and turned off the reception lights, before returning to his office and locking his door and Laura's as well, for good measure. Grabbing a blanket and pillow out of the credenza, he lay both on the coffee table. Returning to her, he leaned his head down and captured her lips with his. Her hands slid up his chest before her arms wrapped around his neck. He carefully maneuvered them backwards until his legs came in contact with the couch. Removing the boot as she waited for him to recline on his back, she straddled his hips then leaned forward to reclaim his lips.

"Rem…" she whispered against his lips.

"I know, love," he assured her just as quietly, cupping her neck and sealing their lips together.

As they made love, Remington's thoughts focused on the little slip of a lass seeking solace in his body, as he was in hers. Her hands and mouth were constantly on the move, as though unable to find enough contact. His hands soothed over back, hips and hair, trying to comfort while simultaneously stirring her desire. A part of him still could not believe only several months ago the woman astride him would have turned away from him, shut him out, instead of seeking to assuage her tattered heart by finding her refuge in him. _Not that I was any better at turning to her_ , he admitted to himself. His fear of making himself vulnerable only to be turned away would have prevented him from seeking relief in her. Yet, in the last months they'd made magnificent strides in turning to one another in times of turbulence. Yes, her walls had gone up today out of the longstanding habit of trying to protect her heart from further injury. But to lower them so soon? _Progress, glorious progress._

His brain shut down functioning all together when he watched her rise up to shed him of his pants and briefs. No matter how many times they'd made love, when it was she who determined when it was time to remove the final barrier between them, her reaction was always the same when he'd spring long, hard and proud from the enclosure of his clothing – a soft gasp, a nibble at her lips, eyes widening slightly, then a soft sigh as she'd take him in hand. Today was no exception, making his heartbeat pick up pace. _There's nothing quite like watching one's wife's open appreciation of your body._ She stroked and fondled him long minutes, or maybe only scant seconds, then pressed upwards only to slowly lower as she took him inside of her body. She shook him to the core, when instead of beginning to move, taking them towards that most sought after of ends, she shifted, leaning forward until she lay upon his chest even as he remained still firmly encased within her. His entire body tremored at the action as his heart clenched. His arms wrapped around her of their own accord, keeping her close.

Laura closed her eyes, releasing a deep, shuddering breath. Her body quaked at the feel of Remington's body held within hers. This is what she'd needed. Complete immersion in him: heart, spirit and body. She'd craved his comfort so, so desperately from the moment they'd heard the news, that she'd shut down, afraid she'd drive him away. It had always been one of her greatest fears: loving him too much, wanting him too much, _needing_ him too much, until eventually all that 'too much' overwhelmed then drove him away. She shivered when she felt his arms wrap around her, press her closer. To continue discovering his wants, his needs… his love, for her only rivaled hers for him, still confounded her regularly.

Without stirring, she whispered quietly into the air, "I love you, Remington Chalmers Steele." She felt his body shake beneath hers as he let out a hard, fast breath while a hand skimmed up her back, burrowing into her hair, drawing her even closer.

"I can only hope half as much as I do you, baby." His voice was gruff with the emotion of which he spoke, his words infusing her heart with joy, even the silly little term of endearment he was slipping up and calling her more often. _Baby._ Any other man who would have attempted to call her by the name would have found himself lacerated by her tongue. It was demeaning… it was dismissive… insulting, even. But spoken by him, always with just the slightest bit of awe, with a bit of his Irish brogue coursing through it, always when he was a bit overwhelmed by his own emotions? It spoke of how close he felt to her, infused as it was with a tenderness that could not be measured.

Pushing herself up, she leaned forward until she rested on bent arms against his shoulders. Her fingers toyed and tangled in his hair as she kissed him with every piece of her heart in each touch of her lips to his, until his fingers dug into her hips, imploring her to move. Sitting up, she reached for his hands. His electric blue eyes never left her, as she rode him, letting him pierce her to the core again and again.

"Lau-ra," his voice held a plea. Releasing his hands, she planted her palms on his abdomen, using the taut muscles as support as she rose and fell. His hands sought out her breasts, sighing deeply when he felt their sleight weight in his palms. His thumbs brushed over peaked nipples, drawing a deep moan from her, before they were on the move. Tracing the rise and fall of her ribs, skimming the curve of her waist, stroking her flat stomach, caressing her hips, trailing over her thighs, feathering over her bottom, watching her face throughout. He knew she was close when her eyes closed. Digging his heels into the couch and grasping her hips, he lifted his hips, moving harder faster within her, while he body began to shake as he refused to allow his own release until she found hers.

"Babe, I can't wa—" he groaned deep in his throat, when she cried out his name, her body trembling under his hands, her inner muscles clenching his shaft rhythmically as her orgasm washed over her. He sighed her name repeatedly as he found his own climax within her. She was still quivering when his arms wrapped around her, drawing her to his chest, where her fast, hot breath stirred the hair and warmed the skin as he rained kisses across the top of her head. Long minutes passed before she regretfully shifted to release him from her body. Reaching for the blanket as she stretched her length out over his, he drew it over top of them.

"That was—"

"Intense," she finished for him. He nodded his agreement. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the sound of his heart beat under her ear soothing her. "I'm sorry. I needed to be with you—"

"In the most elemental of ways?" She shook her head against his chest, before lifting her head and resting her chin on arms crossed against his chest. Her eyes sought and found his.

"In every way," she corrected, reaching out to caress a cheek. "I feel…" she shook her head as she tried to find the right words. "When the test came back negative, I felt like someone had taken something very important from both of us, without our consent. I felt cheated…robbed. Foolish, I know…" she trailed off and averted her eyes.

"A foolishness shared by myself as well, then. Do you think I felt… feel… any differently?"

"No." she answered quietly, laying her head back on his chest again, fingers stroking his sides. "I know I reacted… badly… at first. But I really wanted it to be so in the end," she let out a slow breath. "Too soon or not, planned or not… I wanted it. You and I," she laughed softly, " _you and I_ , had created a _child_ together." She shook her head again. Her face scrunched up, battling back the tingle behind her eyes. "I could almost feel it…" He caught the forlorn note in her voice, and tightened his arms around her, pressing his lips hard against the top of her head. She might not ever understand how her words affected him, to know she'd wanted their child… _his child_ … as much as her voice belied that she had.

"Perhaps… just perhaps… this was meant to do nothing more than to make us take notice, reassess, if you will, eh?" She turned her head to rest it on folded arms again.

"What do you mean?" He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear while he considered his words.

"I know little more than a month ago, we both agreed we wanted more time for only the two of us before we considered a child. But this… experience… has made me realize a couple things about myself." She studied him at length before she spoke.

"Such as?" she finally questioned.

"I'll be thirty-five this upcoming year, neither old nor young. Yet each year that passes is one less year I'll have any form of assurance I'll be able to punt around a ball in the backyard with my son in his later childhood, be able to toss my daughter up on my shoulders for a walk on the beach. _Especially_ given the nature of our work, the toll it sometimes takes upon our bodies." His eyes held hers, watching for any sign that she was about to pull away, shut down. When clear eyes gazed back at him, he found the courage to continue. "I want this, Laura. I want it now. I've wanted it for nearly a year now, maybe even longer." Words said, they lingered in the air around them.

"It's big decision, Remington, a _huge one_. Maybe not the type of decision we make while we're still… digesting… trying to… adjust to the news we received today. I think we need to stop, think, not act on pure emotion right now, as hard as that is to do." She waited to see disappointment, anger, injury on his face, but instead he maintained a remarkable, pensive, calm.

"I'm not saying that we decide, here and now, that we'll start trying to have a child." He paused, searching. "Merely that we consider stop trying _not_ to…" A corner of her lips quirked.

"So just let nature take its course."

"Precisely." Remington watched Laura with unease, unsure if she was truly comfortable with the suggestion, or if an explosion was just around the bend.

"A plan not to have a plan, so to speak." He nodded.

"Mmmm, a plan not to have a plan," he agreed. He brushed the back of his fingers across a cheek before cupping it. "I'm not asking you to commit to anything here and now. Just to consider it." She mulled his words at length while unconsciously pursing her lips and nodding her head.

"I'll consider it," she agreed, but then qualified, "But I make no promises other than to give it serious thought."

"That's all I ask," he agreed, brushing a kiss against her forehead. His brows drew together as he recalled what had left him scratching his head that afternoon. "Laura? A question?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You introduced yourself to the client this afternoon as Laura Steele, not Holt?" She raised her brows at him with amusement.

"Is there a question in there somewhere, Mr. Steele?" she asked teasingly. He quirked a brow at her.

"And Mildred twice referred to you as Mrs. Steele, not Miss Holt?" Her smile widened.

"I'm still not sure what the question is, since it's not been clearly defined."

"Lau-ra," he drawled. Her laughter wafted through the room.

"Miss Holt belongs to my past, Mrs. Steele my present," she explained with a lift of her brows. "I take great pride in our partnership, all we've accomplished, professionally speaking. Even more so, I'm proud of how hard we've fought to have this: our marriage, our home, the family we'll have some day." She lay her palm against his cheek and waited until piercing blue eyes met with hers. "You took ownership of the name I gave you, in every way imaginable… without hesitation and with a great deal of pride. It somehow seems only right, then, that I take ownership of the name you gave me. I'm _proud_ to be _your wife,_ Mr. Steele. And I want you to know, in my mind, we _are_ The Steeles, first and foremost." She shrugged her shoulders as her face lit up in a dimpled smile.

She grew nervous as he continued to stare intently at her and silence persisted at length. Laura had just begun to believe she'd misstepped when a pair of hands grabbed her underneath her arms and drug her up his body. Remington's hands grasped her either side of her face, drawing her down so their lips could meet. He kissed her hard and long, in a way he rarely did. Possession. He was taking possession of her and the moment, she realized.

"You're mine," he nearly growled, as somehow, grasping her around the waist, he took to his knees then folded them over so she lay beneath him, the blanket falling to the floor. He locked his mouth over hers again, the kiss proprietary, almost feral in its hunger. She understood what was driving him. By laying claim to the name, she'd just laid claim, quite publicly, to him and what they were to one another. She said as much when he broke off the kiss only when breathing made it a necessity.

"And you're mine," she whispered against his ear as her fingers glided slowly over his back, then bottom, in the way he liked. Almost instantly he grew rock hard against her stomach, both because of her touch and words. "A double feature then?" she asked, her laughter trickling through the room.

"Aye," was all he could manage before his mouth found hers again.

In the aftermath, his heavy length lay over her petite body, his face buried in her neck as he fought to control breathing and emotion. Her hands sought to soothe, to calm, threading through his hair, caressing his shoulders, whispering over his back. Eyes closed and a soft smile playing on her lips, she basked in the knowledge that she could do this to her husband: make him lose control, driven by emotion and need alone. He slid his arms underneath of her, pulling her tighter to him, when his body quivered for the final time.

"The Steeles," he breathed against her neck.

"The Steeles," she confirmed quietly, her arms wrapping around him, to keep him close. Heavy though he might be, she settled in and held him as he dozed, his breath warming her neck while he slept.

(TBC)


	24. Chapter 24: Extraction

Chapter 24: Extraction

On Wednesday afternoon after Remington's arrival at the office, he watched in his office bathroom as Laura prepared for her role in the Schultz case. Brushing out her hair, she pulled it up into a ponytail, then remove all her makeup to reapply a light layer of mascara and lip gloss to her lips. Pulling on a pair of skin tight jeans and a t-shirt, he watched as she changed from a thirty-year-old businesswoman into what could easily pass as girl barely out of her teens. A pair of large hoop earrings and several bangle bracelets slid onto an arm completed the transformation. He eyed her critically from head-to-toe.

"I suddenly feel as though I've robbed the proverbial cradle," he commented.

"And I suddenly feel like Sandy in _Grease,_ " she mused, looking him over in the mirror. He'd decided to don his Johnny Todd persona for the task at hand. He gave her a puzzled look. "John Travolta, Olivia Newton John, Paramount, 1978?" He continued to simply stare. "You, the movie buff, have never seen _Grease?_ " she asked, astonished.

"My tastes, as you are well aware, run to the classics of the '40's and '50's," he reminded her snootily.

"But it's _Grease_. _Grease_! An iconic musical!" she exclaimed. He gave a decidedly ungentlemanly and dismissive snort at the word 'musical.' Shaking her head at him, amused, she turned and pinned him down with a pair of chocolate eyes. "You and me. Saturday night. Your movie room. _Grease._ "

"Now, Laura, we'll have just spent the entire day with a six-year-old. Hardly a time to introduce a questionable choice of viewing material. Why don't we con-"

" _Grease_ , Mr. Steele," she said firmly, smirking when he gave an excellent impersonation of a little boy who had just been informed he'd have to eat all his spinach. With a roll of her eyes, she left the bathroom, a smile lighting her face. Her husband and partner followed close on her heels, wracking his brain for a way to get out of Saturday night.

* * *

In the car, Remington browsed the background check Mildred had put together, as Laura weaved and out of traffic on CA-2 East, en route to East Hollywood.

"Nasty piece of work, this one is," he commented aloud.

"Oh?"

"Our Mr. McKnight seems to enjoy putting his hands on young women. Five arrests for domestic assault, three restraining orders over the course of the last six or so years."

"Confirms Schultz's beliefs about him abusing Greta," she observed as she swung the Rabbit hard to the left to turn onto North Bronson. "Address, Mr. Steele?"

"1720 North Harvard."

"Clear on the plan?" she asked as she turned right onto Hollywood Blvd.

"I should hope so since it's by my design," he answered with raised brow.

One last turn and she pulled the Rabbit over next to the curb then cut off the engine. Their heads turned in tandem to assess the apartment building where McKnight lived. The two-story brick building housed twenty units by their count and had certainly seen better days. Paint had peeled off of doors and window frames, trash was strewn about the stoops before many of the units and old, broken down furniture was piled in heaps along the walkway.

"Rivals some of the most palatial establishment in Brixton," Remington muttered.

"Let's just hope these places back up to an alley," Laura replied, as she opened her door and climbed out.

Shoving a stick of gum into his mouth, he followed her lead, then slung a casual arm over her shoulder as they walked towards apartment one-oh-nine. As soon she rapped on the door, Laura dropped her eyes, and slouched her shoulders, giving every appearance of being a timid, easily intimidated and uncertain young woman who did not question her boyfriend's edicts

When the door of the apartment swung open, she was surprised by the appearance of the man who answered. She'd conjured an image of a version of Remington's Johnny Todd – greased back hair, earring, slightly garish clothing and a street-smart cockiness that oozed out of every pore. Instead, she faced a man who grandmothers everywhere would refer to as 'that handsome young man.' Blonde haired and green eyed, with a deep tan, he was quite handsome in a wholesome sort of way and wore a pair of pleated, khaki dress pants, a teal polo tucked in neatly, a tan belt and matching tan sports jacket. _Miami Vice, wannabe,_ she thought to herself. It did explain, however, how it was he managed to lure woman after woman into his grasp. The All-American boy. The woman beater. Keeping with character, she glanced at him briefly then immediately looked back down on the ground, feigning shyness and uncertainty.

"Um, I'm sorry to bother you," she said softly, "I'm looking for Greta? Mr. Sambronsky sent me to get her uniforms and give her this," she held up an envelope, never looking him in the eye. He snatched the envelope from her hand.

"Greta, get out here," he yelled over his shoulder. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the envelope.

"Seems your bird managed to get 'erself fired," Remington informed him, chawing gum, the Cockney flowing through words and body language. His arm tightened around Laura's neck pulling her towards him before he released the grip although his arm remained. "Little woman 'ere be takin' 'er place. Won't be losin' the job 'either lessin' she wants to answer to me." Remington felt Laura's shoulders stiffen under the term 'little woman' and suppressed a smile. He'd meant to prick; after all, a man's got to take his fun when and where he can.

"Yeah, and Greta'll answer to me," McKnight answered in forewarning. "Greta! I said get out here!" he screamed over his shoulder.

"Right little sort or not, they need to know their place. And iffin' they get bang outta order, gotta be knocked back into place, you know what I mean?" Remington gave a sleazy laugh while slapping McKnight on the shoulder.

"Damn right," the man agreed. "If a bitch is going to be me, she's going to know who's boss." He turned to yell again when Greta appeared behind him.

Greta Schultz was small which only heated Remington's blood further. He didn't abide by a man putting his hands on a woman under any circumstance. But the bloke outsized the girl by a foot and close to a hundred pounds. Several inches shorter than Laura, he'd put the sandy brown haired, brown eyed girl at maybe six-and-a-half stone, and that was being generous. He had to control his rage when he noted the bruises on the girl's left upper arm and still healing split lip. Beside him, Laura shifted slightly under his arm… a reminder, he knew, to keep his mind on the case.

And that is precisely what she _had_ been doing. She'd felt his body tense against her the moment he'd laid eyes on the girl. She needed him to focus on the immediate goal: getting her alone with Greta to ascertain if she wanted out. The slight squeeze of his arm about her neck conveyed he understood, as did his sudden shove, propelling her past McKnight and into the apartment.

"Get on with it then, I ain't got all day!" He turned to McKnight for commiseration. "Old lady would stand about starin' at the ground all day iffin' I'd let her. Iffin' there's nothin' worse than a mouthy bird, it'd be a lazy one." He slung his arm around McKnight's shoulders as if they were old mates, effectively distracting him while Laura and Greta moved to the bedroom so the latter could retrieve her uniforms. Laura shut the door quietly behind them.

"Greta, my name is Laura Holt," Laura explained as she took the girl's hands in hers. She spoke in an undertone in case McKnight entered the apartment. "I'm a private investigator with Remington Steele Investigations. Your father hired my partner, Mr. Steele," she nodded towards the front of the apartment, "and I to help you… _if_ you need help. He and your mother are _very worried_ about you." The young girl's eyes welled with tears at the last, even as she shook her head frantically.

"I can't. Derrick said—"

"Forget what Derrick said," Laura said insistently. "If he's threatened you, if you're afraid of him, _if you want to leave_ , I give you my word Mr. Steele will make it quite clear that he is to never come near you again. The question is: Do you want to go home? I won't make you do anything you don't want to do." Greta blinked at the tears in her eyes, while casting a fearful glance towards the bedroom door. Then nodding frenetically, set the tears free.

"I want to go home." Laura gave her a quick hug, then focused her attention on the bedroom window.

Moving the night stand under the window, she eased herself up, then slid the window open. Motioning with a hand towards Greta, the girl joined her on the nightstand.

"My things!" the girl said, starting to climb back down. Laura grabbed her upper arm gently.

"Your parents will replace whatever you have here. Right now, we need to leave, before my partner runs out of ways to distract him."

With a last look at the room, Greta straddled the window sill then dropped down outside. Laura followed close behind, turning and hanging off the ledge before letting go to fall the last two feet. It took a great deal of concentration but she managed to land on her good foot, protecting the booted ankle. Grabbing Greta by the hand, she half-ran/half-walked around the of the edge of the building, using the dumpsters near the road as cover until they had no choice but to pass within fifty feet of the front door on the way to the Rabbit. At just a glance towards him, she knew Remington had spotted them as his body language changed from relaxed, to furious.

"I know that one back there," McKnight was saying, hitching his thumb towards the interior of the apartment, "and I are going to have a little chat, if you know what—"

He never finished the sentence as Remington turned on his heel and slammed an uppercut into the man's stomach, doubling him over. Before McKnight knew what had happened, Remington grabbed him by the hair and slammed him into the wall of the apartment building, a right jab, then left cross landing in the man's face, the latter busting McKnight's lip, much as he'd done to Greta. For good measure, Remington propelled the man forward, bringing up his knee at the same time, planting it in McKnight's gut. Grabbing him by the hair again, he slung him against the wall face first, before turning him around and putting a hand around his throat.

"You like little girls? Like to hurt them?" Remington's mouth was pressed close to the man's face, teeth bared in fury. "Threaten them?" He threw another upper cut into the man's abdomen. "Let me be clear, mate. Go near the girl again, speak to her again… _threaten_ her again, and I give you my word, the next time we meet it shan't be nearly as pleasant. Capiche?" McKnight nodded furiously.

"Yes, yes!" he agreed, holding his hands up. "Little bitch wasn't worth the trouble in the first place." Remington shook his head at the man in disgust, then removing his hand from his throat, pulled his arm back and threw a right hook, knocking McKnight out cold. Looking around to make sure there had been no witnesses, he straightened his jacket and strolled casually to the Rabbit, climbing in the passenger seat. He held out his hand towards the road in front of them.

"Shall we, Mrs. Steele?" Laura gave him a glance, noting his bruised knuckles. With a nod, and a silent notation to discuss this later, she started the Rabbit and pulled away from the curb.

* * *

That evening, they relaxed in bed, Remington leaning with back against headboard, eyes closed, and Laura's head in his lap, as she lazily caressed his hand. She'd not mentioned a word of her suspicions about what might have gone on between he and McKnight, although she'd most certainly have an opinion. Whether he should ascribe this lack of commentary to the 'she's giving me a pass' column or in the 'someday, somewhere _down the line_ she'll demand recompense for this' column he wasn't sure. By the same token, there was the manner in which she'd casually disregarded the bruised, swollen knuckles on his hand: had she felt the damage so minimal they required not even the normal, requisite bag of ice _or_ that the damage was just penance? More than four years of association, five months of marriage and he had no answers at hand. The uncertainty was just one of the many ways his wife continued to confound him and probably always would.

They'd returned Greta, amidst a round of a great many tears and babbled words of apology, to the loving care of her mother and father. All-in-all not a bad afternoon's work in his opinion.

Laura was of much the same opinion. This was the most rewarding part of the job, being able to bring families or friends back together, helping bring people peace of mind. It reminded her of the day she'd decided to become a private detective when she grew up. She'd been six-years-old and her beloved grandmother's treasured ring had disappeared. She'd been offered a quarter to find it. While the opportunity to earn some money had been exciting to a little girl, it was her grandmother's moist eyes and genuine hugs after she'd found the precious artifact that stayed with her across the years. It had been her contribution to making someone's life a little bit better. Heady stuff.

Without plan, she turned the hand in hers over and traced the bruised knuckles. Remington started then settled back down, as her fingers glided over the skin. She'd known before he'd thrown the first punch that he wouldn't be able to walk away without making a lasting impression on McKnight, that he'd exact his pound of flesh for the man's abuse of Greta. She knew, too, that he'd make sure McKnight understood the consequences should he go near the girl again. Remington had a code, deeply ingrained within him: A man should never raise a hand to a woman, mishandle her in any manner. Such abuse would be virtually guaranteed to bring out that part of her husband he normally concealed: the rage fueled, verging on violent young man he'd once been before Daniel had pulled him from the streets.

Like the origin of all his personal codes of honor, she knew there'd be a story behind this as well. She flicked her eyes towards him wondering if he would share. This was still unfamiliar territory for her, the openness with which he'd answer questions about his past. It was rather like playing a game of roulette: the ball bouncing around on the wheel until it finally fell into the 'that's off limits' slot. Well, one never knew unless they gambled.

"Remington?" His eyes lit on her face.

"Hmmm?"

"Where does it come from?" She raised her eyes to look at his puzzled face.

"Where does what come from?" She held his hand aloft, thumb caressing his knuckles.

"The protectiveness, to be the champion of those who find themselves at an unfair disadvantage? Children, women?" He picked up a strand of her hair and twirled it in his fingers, laughing softly.

"Ah… I'm no one's champion." She stared at him intently before returning her attention to his hand, turning it palm side up to feather her fingertips over his palm.

"You might be surprised," she commented in a near whisper. "But that doesn't answer the question," she pointed out. Releasing her hair, he scrubbed a palm against his face.

"There was no singular person or event, as you seem to think there might've been. It was an amalgamation of things I'd witnessed in the homes I'd lived in, my life on the streets. Men who thought nothing of taking a hand to a child, a wife, because their status in the home, their size allowed them to do as they may. The bigger lads on the streets beating the smaller, taking what they wished, when they wished." He closed his eyes, brows drawing together, blue eyes haunted when lids lifted. "The lasses, just children themselves, selling their bodies for food, in hopes of shelter for the night, the toll they paid already far too high, only for some man to beat them for his pleasure, because he could. Cowards, the lot of them, when faced with someone of equal or greater size and strength."

She nodded her head thoughtfully. She hated it. Despised that he'd grown up in that world, marveled that somehow he'd survived to be the man that he was.

"Greta was little more than a child, Laura. He seduced her, abused her trust, alienated her from her family, then still not only put his hands on her more than once, but threatened worse. He'd been running the same number for years. Who knows how many other Gretas? He believed himself immune to consequence. He needed to be shown otherwise." He finished off on a sigh and prepared himself for the admonishments that were sure to come.

"I understand." His brows drew together, the answer not at all in keeping with Laura Holt. Before he had time to dissect that, she'd moved on. "What do you have on your schedule tomorrow?"

"Beyond accompanying you to physical therapy, if you wish me to be there, nothing at all. Have something on your mind?"

"Mmmm. I need to wrap up last month's financials in the morning but should be done by eleven. How would you feel about some Christmas shopping and lunch. If we want our gifts to arrive in Greece before Christmas, we need to ship them this week." Fingers still traveling through her hair, he looked down at her in surprise.

"I wasn't aware we were sending anything to Greece." She cast him a look that suggested he was daft.

"If we're doing for my nieces and nephews, we're doing for yours; my mother, Marcos and Elena; my sister and brother-in-law—" He chuckled lightly.

"No need to continue. Your point, as always, is well made." He swiped a hand across his chin then held it there. "Have you ideas, as well, for what we'll be on the hunt?" She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"For Christos and Zeth, Marcos and Elena I was thinking we'd keep it simple. Maybe a couple of nice bottles of wine from a California vintner?" Remington's brows raised.

"Splendid idea and I believe I have just the wine in mind. And Melina?"

"A vintage piece of jewelry? It would certainly complement her personal style." He nodded his agreement.

"I know just the place." A wry smile lifted her lips.

"Somehow, I thought you might," she drawled.

"I imagine you have ideas for the children as well?" She shrugged.

"Traditional American Favorites: Barbies, Easy Bake Ovens, dolls for the girls; Hot Wheels and Legos for the boys. We'll have everything boxed and wrapped in the stores, then all we have to do is take them to UPS for shipping."

"All of this in an afternoon?"

"In a couple of hours," she corrected. "I expect to be fed before physical therapy, Mr. Steele. I imagine I'll need all the energy I can get." For someone who once survived on lettuce and yogurt, in the years of their association she had learned the enjoyment of a good meal and was seldom willing to forgo either lunch or dinner. That he knew his fair wife was attempting to manipulate him only enhanced his amusement.

"In that case, Mrs. Steele, maybe I'd be wise to pick up the wines and bracelet in the morning while you go over the remainder of your reports, eh?" he suggested, with a lift of his brow. Her lips twitched in her effort not to smile.

"An excellent suggestion," she agreed. A smile played with the corners of his lips. His hand turned over in hers and grasped it, giving her a tug. She went willingly, straddling his waist and leaning forward, her fingers playing with the curls covering his chest. His hands settled on her sides, rhythmically stroking from hip-to-waist. She shivered a little at the feel of skin touching silk touching skin.

"You know what they say about trying to con a conman, don't you?" She pursed her lips and raised her brows.

"Surely, you're not suggesting—"

"Would I dare suggest what you're suggesting I'm suggesting?" Laughter twinkled in his eyes. She showed him a pair of dimples while drawing a flattened hand down his chest.

"I have a suggestion…"

With a chuckle, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. "Ah, Mrs. Steele, you know I'm always open to whatever suggestions come to that magnificent mind of yours…"


	25. Chapter 25: Kiddie City

Chapter 25: Kiddie City

Thursday morning and early afternoon passed by in a pleasant blur. While Laura went to the office to work on month end financials, Remington traveled to St. Costello's Monastery to visit with the new Abbot, the former Brother Bartholomew, the monk with whom he and Laura had engaged in a titillating game of charades once upon a time. The monastery's vow of silence still fully in place, the trip provided an amusing opportunity to once again engage in pseudo sign language. A successful endeavor, however, as Remington had departed the monastery with seven bottles of the vineyard's award winning cabernet: two bottles each for Zeth, Christos and, of course, Marcos and Elena; the final bottle to be hidden away until it would make its appearance during a worthy celebration upcoming in a few scant weeks.

A stop by an antique store Remington knew of that carried vintage pieces of jewelry netted him an intricately designed copper wire bracelet which was bedecked tastefully with aquamarines the very color of the Aegean Sea next to which Melina had grown up. A glance at his watch assured him he had time to stop by a little store front on the eastern fringes of LA, known by only those in the know. The owner, Bertoldo Armandi had created Laura's engagement ring a year prior, and was in the process of forging three new pieces, from drawings rendered by Remington's own hand, for the very same woman. Remington departed pleased with the project, even more so with the assurance from Armandi the pieces would be ready to pick up the Friday prior to Christmas.

He found himself whistling a happy little tune as he strolled back to the car. _Truly heady stuff, it is_ , he acknowledged to himself. The first three Christmases that Laura was in his life had left him continually flummoxed, as he tried to find the balance between personal enough to express her importance in his life, but not too personal so as to send her, or he, running by a meaning conveyed that neither were yet ready to admit to. Now, however? With no limitations, his choices were endless and he couldn't help but spoil her a bit, something which she would either adore or find annoying to no end. _One never knows with my Mrs. Steele_ , he laughed quietly to himself.

A final stop at his tailor to check on one last gift for her, and he pointed the Auburn in the direction of the office. At Laura's insistence, the bottles of wine and the bracelet for Melina were transferred to the trunk of the limousine. It was practical, she'd pointed out. No need to fight for parking, a trunk large enough to transport their purchases, and, if need be, a back seat in which she could stretch out her leg after physical therapy. After a pleasant lunch at the pub near the Rossmore, they were on their way to finish this leg of the Christmas shopping.

Their trip to the toy store was a learning experience for Remington. The toy stores of his childhood, through whose windows he'd peek and doors he'd never pass, were quaint little shops nestled among other stores in the various villages he'd visited for a time. In fact, the store Laura had visited in Vail the Christmas prior reminded him much of those he was familiar with. But this Kiddie City that Laura had hauled him off to rivaled the size of a large warehouse. Rows upon rows of toys, of all kinds… quite the dazzling array.

Laura found herself easily distracted as she watched her husband take in the store around him. She laughed out loud when he mumbled under his breath after he found toys he recalled seeing advertisements for in his childhood remanded to the vintage toy section: Slinky dogs, pull-a-tunes and Tinker Toys, just to name a few. He glared at her apparent amusement, before a smug smile replaced his frown.

"You do realize, Mrs. Steele, that such toys were likely part of your own childhood given you are but three years younger than myself." If he'd thought to irritate her, which he had hoped to do, he was wrong. She'd simply patted him on the arm, then laughed as she continued down the aisle.

She enjoyed watching his simple awe at the vast variety of toys offered for children of all ages, even as her heart ached a little when she recalled his story about the sled the Christmas prior and realized he'd likely not had many toys during his childhood. That assumption bore out as he assisted her in picking out toys for his brother's children. The largest set of Lego's, plus the Lego Airport and transformers for Zeth's seven-year-old twin sons, Colin and Cole; Super Hair Barbie, Skipper Sport and a half dozen outfits for each for Zeth's Kara and Christos's Addie and Bronte, as well as the Barbie Ferrari for Kara and Addie and the Pink Volkswagen for Bronte; Christos's Coleen and Daphne and Zeth's Alecia and Alexia a Cabbage Patch Doll and Pound Puppy each; and for the youngest two, a Change-A-Tune-Carousel and Turtle Xylophone. Then, given Laurie Beth would be accompanying them on Saturday while they continued Christmas shopping, her husband fairly emptied out the My Little Pony section, buying a half dozen different ponies for the little girl as well as a My Little Pony lunchbox and Satin Slipper Shop. With two carts filled to the brim and her husband acting like a kid in a candy shop, she firmly directed him towards the registers.

"That's it," she warned him, wagging her finger at him when he tried to add yet more toys to their carts, "When we have children you are _forbidden_ to take them to the toy store!"

"Oh, why is that?" he asked, with a tug to his ear even as his eyes danced with amusement.

" _One toy_. It is customary to buy _one toy_ for each child of the immediate family. If this is your idea of moderation for nieces and nephews, I don't even want to hazard a guess what it means for a child of your own." Stepping behind her, he lay his hand on the small of her back, brushing the spot with his thumb, smiling when he felt the shiver travel up her spine.

"Perhaps I mean to spoil them as I intend to spoil their Mommy, eh?" he inquired, bussing her on the shoulder before he stepped away. He glanced at her flushed skin and wagged his brows at her.

"Remington, moderation teaches appreciation; a child earning what they want teaches them the value of a dollar and personal responsibility," she lectured.

"And Mommy will see to it they have that, where as their Da—"

"Has this one Christmas to spoil the children in his life, but after this year will walk the line," she interrupted.

"Aw," he grumbled, "But—"

"No 'buts,' buster." She shook her head and laughed. She simply couldn't maintain the stern façade when he was clearly having the time of his life. It was, to her, as though he was restoring a small part of his childhood that he'd been denied. If a little retail therapy gave him new, lasting, joyous memories of Christmas, far be it from her to stand in his way.

However, the shopping spree did present its challenges. They were provided an estimate of an hour and a half for the wrapping to be finished, whereas her physical therapy was schedule to start in an hour, at a facility thirty minutes away. In the end, they left Fred with one of their personal credit cards, the Androkus's address and instructions to ship all the gifts – minus Laurie Beth's - once they were ready, then to pick them up at physical therapy afterwards. In the meantime, they hailed a cab to deliver them to Laura's appointment on time.

* * *

It took all of Remington's skill and charm to placate a mercurial Laura that evening. Her ankle had been manipulated and worked enough that she was in considerable pain, but remained stubbornly adamant that she would not rely on painkillers to get her through and no amount of charm would get her to relent. A hot bath and a double dose of Tylenol lessened the pain to a dull roar, allowing her to sleep fitfully throughout the night. Yet, before the deplorable antics of Norm and Bud could wake him, Laura's irritable ramblings from the bathroom did. Having learned his lesson the night prior, he retrieved the Tylenol, handed her four tablets and a glass of water, before throwing on his robe and going downstairs to start the coffee and tea, giving her wide berth. When she came down for her coffee, he bussed her on the cheek then exchanged places with her, heading upstairs to prepare for work.

Having left the Auburn at Century Towers the day prior, any ideas of delaying going into the office were nullified immediately. Hence, with a great deal of trepidation and a vow to be silent, he climbed into the passenger seat. As was typical of her driving when in a foul mood, Laura punished the road – and those sharing the road around her. Unfortunately, Remington made the grave mistake of unconsciously shaking his head as he climbed out of the car.

"What!?" she snapped. He held up his hands in apology then waited for her to round the car before lying his hand on the small of her back. When she immediately shook him off, his feet stalled long enough for him to close his eyes and scrub at his face. Letting out a long, slow breath he prayed for patience before falling into step behind her. He'd half a mind to turn on his heel, get in the Auburn and leave early for his ten o'clock appointment with Charles Lufkin of Lufkin Electronics. However, an unsuspecting Mildred awaited the arrival of his volatile wife and he felt it incumbent upon himself to give her fair warning to walk lightly on the day, if he were able.

Thankfully, for Mildred's sake, Laura sailed through the reception area without so much as a good morning, slamming her office door behind her. Remington lifted his face to the ceiling and scrubbed at his chin, before expelling yet another frustrated breath.

"What've you done now, Boss?" Mildred asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Apparently in the last eighteen hours, my mere presence has been enough to incite her displeasure," he shrugged, leaning down to buss their trusted secretary on the cheek. "Good morning, darling," he greeted her. She patted him on the cheek absently while casting him a dubious look.

"You've done nothing? The last time I saw her that keyed up was when you ran off to marry that hooker," she observed. Remington winced at the reminder.

"Bad afternoon at physical therapy and she refuses to take anything for the discomfort," he corrected. "You may want to consider lying low until this blows over," he advised with two raps of his knuckles on her desk. "I'm off. Should Mrs. Steele inquire, please remind her I'll see her late this evening. I've an appointment this morning with Lufkin, the Chamber of Commerce luncheon and an appointment with …" he struggled to recall.

"Glazer," Mildred provided.

"Yes, yes. Glazer this afternoon. She can reach me, if needed, on the car phone. Remember, darling, stay low." With those last words of advice, he departed the office.


	26. Chapter 26: Priorities

Chapter 26: Priorities

At four o'clock, Laura threw her hands up in the air where she sat at her desk and called a spade a spade. Her ankle was still throbbing, making her… difficult. Her husband had fled her presence within minutes of arriving at the office and Mildred had ended up glaring at her, fists planted on hips, a half dozen times on the day after being snapped at for no just cause. After closing out and filing the Schultz case, her desk was clear as only the two potential security contracts Remington was working on were all they had on the immediate horizon. To keep her mind occupied, she'd buried her nose in the Roselli files which had only left her all the more cross.

To top it all off, she and Remington had agreed to keep Laurie Beth the next day, the idea of which only added an extra edge to her nerves. A test for herself, to see how she would relate to a single child at a time. If her mood continued to decline at the rate it was, and the pain in her ankle not become manageable, the day would be a disaster from the start.

So, at four o'clock she'd called it a day, ignoring the relieved look on Mildred's face as she watched her boss depart. By quarter until five, she was home, ensconced in the churning, steaming waters of their jacuzzi tub, and holding a pill in the palm of her hand. She stared at it for a handful of seconds, then reluctantly swallowed it with the aid of a glass of water. Thirty short minutes later, the throbbing in her ankle eased to a dull ache, and she was considerably more relaxed.

"How's the ankle feeling, love?" She started where she sat in the tub, then turned around to find Remington leaning with a shoulder against the doorway to the bathroom, watching her.

"Better. I took a pill." She gave him a wry smile. "I thought I'd chased you off for the evening."

"Mmmm," he hummed, then tugged at his ear. "Thought I'd see if you might wish to have some company this evening." He'd alternated between being irritated with and concerned about his petulant wife throughout the day. When he'd called to check in at the office and Mildred had informed him Laura had left the office early, concern had been the victor.

"That depends on whose company you're referring to. If you mean my sister, I'm not up to that this evening. If you mean my husband, he's welcome to join me." Her eyes held an apology in them, even as her hand indicated the bath. What tension still lurked in her neck and shoulders released when he moved to stand next to the tub, and leaned down to brush a kiss across her lips.

"I'll be right back," he assured her, then turned and left the bathroom.

Laura shifted downwards in the tub with a sigh. This was one of the things about Remington she never failed to appreciate: his ability… and willingness… to forgive so easily under most circumstances. No groveling, no protracted apologies as would be expected from Frances, her mother… would have been from Wilson. A simple, sincere look, on occasion a couple of words, and all was well again. The man himself reappeared a few minutes later, wearing his robe and setting a plate holding cheese and crackers on the edge of the jacuzzi.

"If my suspicions are correct, you didn't consider eating a bit of something before taking your pill," he explained as removed his robe, then lowered himself in the tub across from her.

"I didn't," she confirmed before tilting her head at him. "Don't you have poker this evening?"

"Monroe and I have decided to forgo poker night until after the New Year." Actually, he'd bowed out of the evening, after which they'd agreed with the upcoming holidays and the trip to France, it would be wise to pick up after the first of the year. No need troubling Laura with the little details. She eyed him suspiciously, but in light of what he'd put up with the past day, decided to let it pass. She was much more interested in a quiet evening at home than proving he'd been… misleading.

And a quiet evening at home is exactly what they'd enjoyed, he sitting at one end of the couch in his viewing room, she lying down with her feet in his lap as he massaged foot and ankle, alleviating the remaining aches and stiffness.

"That feels wonderful," she'd all but purred at one point. She was surprised when he shifted beneath her feet and released her foot long enough for an anxious tug of his ear.

"I may have stopped off at your physical therapist's office and inquired if there was anything I could do to… assist… with your discomfort. He showed me a few things," he confessed, then waited on the obligatory lecture on how she could take care of herself. This time it had been her turn to shock him, when she snuggled further into the couch and closed her eyes.

"Above and beyond, Mr. Steele," she murmured.

"To the contrary. In sickness and health, Mrs. Steele," he'd countered.

They enjoyed a late dinner, before Laura took a second and final dose of medication for the evening. By the time she woke Saturday morning, any lingering discomfort in her ankle had faded. She celebrated the occasion by waking her husband in a way that guaranteed both of their mornings would get off to a good start. Indeed, by the time Frances arrived with Laurie Beth, they'd enjoyed a quiet breakfast together, followed by a shared shower, leaving both of them thoroughly relaxed.

"Uncle Remington," Laurie Beth cried out, launching herself at him. With ease, he swung the little girl up into his arms. "Mommy says I get to go Christmas shopping with you and Aunt Laura today!" she told him excitedly, patting his shoulder with her small hand.

"Indeed you do," he confirmed.

"She says I have to be on my very bestest behavior," she told him solemnly.

"Ah, I see," he answered in his most serious of tones. "I don't imagine that will be a problem for a well-mannered young lady such as yourself, do you?" She shook her head vigorously in response.

"Laura, I absolutely love what you've done to the house! Your decorations are wonderful! And this tree! I wish Donald and I had room for one so grand," Frances lamented.

"Now Frances, you know you do a remarkable job with decorating. Your house is always so… homey," Laura appeased.

"I do what I can with the space I have. Our house here is much smaller than our house in Connecticut, you know." Laura concentrated on not rolling her eyes. It wasn't the first time Frances had voiced this complaint, nearer the hundredth, and it wouldn't be the last. "I have to be on my way if I'm going to have Mindy ready on time. Thanks so much for doing this again."

"It's our pleasure, Frances," Remington answered for the two of them.

"Laurie Beth, remember to mind your manners. I'll be back in just a few hours." With those final words, Frances left, closing the door behind her.

"What time did you tell Fred?" Laura asked. They'd decided with Laurie Beth along, the little girl would not only enjoy the treat of riding in the limousine, but it was, in the end, the most practical of their choices. The two-seater Auburn was certainly not appropriate and the Rabbit's trunk would likely not be large enough for their purchases.

"Twelve fifteen," he provided.

"Sweetie, why don't you go use the bathroom really fast before we leave," she suggested to Laurie Beth.

"Alright, Aunt Laura!" she agreed, skipping away towards the other side of the house and the guest bathroom.

Since Remington had left the choice of shopping destination up to her, Laura had finally settled on the Beverly Center. The eight-story mall offered five levels of on-site parking and three levels of shopping, and would place more than a hundred stores at their fingertips. By her calculation, they still had a long list of people to purchase gifts for: Murphy's twin boys, Bernice's son, Mildred, Veronica, Maxie, Donald, Frances, her mother, Mindy, Danny and something to accompany Fred's holiday bonus. That, of course, did not include her husband. While her 'largest' gift for him was already in the works, she still wanted to pick him up a few movies to add to his collection, as well as a new watch, cuff links and a set of tie collar bars. Given her husband would find a great deal of entertainment in watching her trudge through the stores, a task she loathed, she'd decided that amusement could go both ways. Remington preferred quiet, exclusive shops and had yet, to her knowledge, to experience the chaos of an American shopping mall. Add to that her planned lunch in the food court, for Laurie Beth's sake, he'd likely spend most of the afternoon grimacing in discomfort. _Tit-for-tat, Mr. Steele. Tit-for-tat_ , she mused now.

Besides, she could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon than watching her jean and well-fit polo shirt clad husband's form as he navigated the crowded walkways. She smiled a little smile at the thought. _Not a bad way at all._

Forty-five minutes later, as she, said husband and Laurie Beth stepped off of the elevator, she nearly reversed her position on that decision. Rarely did she find herself out shopping at this time of the year. She was an early shopper, preferring to have her gifts purchased by Labor Day. Oh, she might have to run out for a thing here or a thing there, but that was a rarity and when it did happen, she usually turned to the smaller shops of Remington's liking to take care of the matter. Releasing a heavy breath, she realized she may as well get used to the Christmas season shopping madness. After all, when they had children, there was no plausible way to request their letters to Santa four months prior to the holiday.

Remington, on the other hand, would have applauded his wife's initial reaction of doing an about face. Rubbing a hand over his mouth, he looked around him with something akin to horror.

"Are you to tell me Americans actually enjoy this… insanity?" She lifted her free hand and dropped it in a helpless gesture.

"Not this American," she replied. "But we're here. May as well get it over with." With another look around him, he shook his head.

"Who do we still need to purchase gifts for?" She rattled the list off him. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"By all means," she answered, laughing and rolling her eyes.

"We convince Abigail to extend her stay for a few days. We send Donald and Frances to our house in Vail, for a ski getaway. When they return, we send Abigail to Ashford for a week." She blinked hard and looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

"Do you realize the cost of airfare at this time of the year?" He swept a hand through his hair.

"Laura, I don't care if it costs a king's ransom, which incidentally we can afford, as long as it shaves a few names off that list and gets us out of here all the sooner!" She glanced around again, then turned her attention back to him again.

"Done. That still leaves nine," she pointed out.

"Monday afternoon I'll pick up Fred a bottle of Glenlivet. Down to eight. We'll return to Kiddie Town—"

"Kiddie City," she corrected automatically. He gave her a look of utter frustration.

"Laura, Kiddie Town, Kiddie City, Kiddie Kingdom – whatever its name! It's a veritable Utopia compared to this den of iniquity." She burst out in laughter at that, the sound drawing a smile to his lips in spite of the situation.

"I'm not a fan of mall shopping either, _especially during the holidays,_ but even I think that's a bit extreme a comparison," she admonished. "But you sold me. That leaves Mildred, Veronica, and Maxie." She turned and looked around. "Silk scarves for all, a tasteful purse, additionally, for Mildred. Bloomingdales." He shook his head emphatically.

"Gucci at the Rodeo Collection. We're done here," he announced turning on his heel to return to the elevator, only to find a small hand tugging at his. He turned to look down at Laurie Beth.

"Can I go see Santa Claus? Please, Uncle Remington?" Big brown eyes, much like his wife's, pleaded with him. Next to him, his impertinent wife tittered behind her hand. _Bloody hell._ He peered around the mall and saw Santa sitting center stage on his throne in the midst of all the madness. A line of antsy and screaming children extended half-way across the mall floor. He groaned aloud.

"Is it very important to you, ceann beag?" he asked. Laurie Beth gave him an odd look.

"I'm Laurie Beth, not ce… ce…" That drew a smile from him. He lifted her up easily and balanced her on his hip.

"Ceann beag. It means 'little one' in the language of my childhood," he explained. "My calling you that simply means I'm quite fond of you." Her face lit up at his words.

"That's okay then, because I like you too," she told him patting him on the cheek.

"Let's try again, then, eh? Is it very important to you to see Santa Claus, ceann beag?" She nodded her head vigorously. He looked over his shoulder at Laura, who gave him a complacent shrug of her shoulders. "Very well, then. Let's go see the fella."

Grasping Laura's hand in his and weaving their fingers together, they made their way through the jostling mobs to stand at the end of the line which had lengthened even further during their walk. Laura left Remington and Laurie Beth standing in line while she went up to speak to the head elf. After establishing it would take nearly an hour and a half to reach the front of the line, she returned to her husband's side.

"An hour and a half, roughly," she told him, biting her lip to keep from smiling in response to his appalled look. "Get used to it, Mr. Steele. If you want children, you can expect this to be an annual tradition."

"I'll hire one," he retorted. This time she couldn't hide the smile from him.

"I'm afraid that takes away half the fun. Kids want it all: the lights, the music, the elves, the chaos." She pressed up on her toes, and brushed a kiss against his cheek. "You'll be fine. Stay with Laurie Beth. I'm just going to run to Bloomingdale's real fast and pick up those gifts. I don't see any need for us going over to Rodeo Drive since we'll be here for at least a couple more hours anyway."

"A couple… a couple more hours?" he stuttered. "How's that?"

"I promised Laurie Beth lunch at the food court." She saw the questioning look on his face at the phrase 'food court' as he tried to muddle through what exactly that might be. "You'll see," she teased, then with a pat on his arm left he and an animated Laurie Beth standing in line.

As soon as she was certain she was clear of Remington's line of sight, Laura veered off her path towards the escalator. On the seventh floor, she made a beeline for Tiffany & Company. Within twenty minutes she'd picked out a pair of platinum cufflinks, a matching set of tie collar clips, and a two-tone Atlas Dome Watch, all of which she was assured would be engraved and ready for pick up within the half hour. Her stomach rolled as the equivalent of the national debt was charged to her personal credit card From there, she scurried over to Bloomingdales, selecting three tasteful silk scarves for the women, and on an impulse, added a Christmas dress, lace bobby socks, red Mary Janes and a hair bow for Laurie Beth. A quick glance at her watched showed she'd been gone just under forty-five minutes. Two doors down from Bloomingdales, she purchased a purse for Mildred in Coach, before she walked as fast as her boot would allow back to Tiffany's to retrieve her purchases which she hid inside the purse she'd bought.

She rejoined Remington and Laurie Beth back at the line, still more than a dozen children before them. She shoved the shopping bag from Coach into his hand, before grabbing Laurie Beth's hand in hers.

"Stay in line," she instructed him. "We'll be back in five."

"Where are we going, Aunt Laura? I don't wanna miss Santa!" the little girl called out to her in alarm. Stopping in her tracks and grimacing at her failure to realize her young niece would need an explanation, she kneeled down to meet her at eye level.

"Uncle Remington is standing in line. No one will take your spot, he'll see to it. I have a little surprise for you. It won't take long." Laurie Beth studied her face for a long second then nodded her agreement.

"Okay. But as long as we get right back!" she told her aunt earnestly.

"I promise," Laura vowed, as she stood back up.

In short order, she found the bathroom and helped Laurie Beth change in the stall. Then sitting her up on the counter, brushed her hair and pulled back the front, securing the hair with the bow. Holding Laura's hand, the little girl skipped happily back to the line to join her uncle again.

"My, my, my," Remington greeted her. "What have we here? A Christmas princess?" The little girl flushed at the compliment and smiled widely, showing off the spot where her top two front teeth were missing. Her new dress featured a short-sleeved, red satin top and a full, white lace skirt complete with a crinoline underneath. A large, red satin bow wrapped around her waist in place of a belt.

"Aunt Laura bought it for me!" she announced excitedly.

"Aunt Laura has exquisite taste. You look lovely," he complimented. "Did you thank her properly for her thoughtfulness?" Laurie Beth's eyes widened when she realized she hadn't. Turning to Laura she hugged her hard around her waist before looking up at her.

"Thank you, Aunt Laura. I love my new dress and shoes and think Santa will too!" Laura leaned down and pressed a kiss to the little girl's cheek.

"You're very welcome." She looked up at Remington and caught him in an unguarded moment, yearning clearly painted all over his face. Her stomach did a funny little flip flop in response. She stood up and took his hand. "Thank you for being so patient with all this," she flicked out a hand to indicate the line and Santa Claus.

"Mmmmm," he hummed, bussing her on the cheek much like she just had Laurie Beth. "I've been well-educated on the importance of being able to tell Santa, in person, what one wants for Christmas. Perhaps that was the mix up in my youth, eh?" he asked lightly. "I never once sat upon Daddai Na nollaig's lap."

"Daddai Na nollaig? Is that how Santa Claus is referred to in Ireland?" Laurie Beth looked up and giggled from where she stood with Laura's hand on her shoulder.

"That's a silly name!" she chortled.

"Ah, ceann beag. Maybe to yourself. But I assure you, children in Ireland would think Santa Claus was quite the funny name themselves," he teased, tapping her on her nose. "That or less commonly, San Nioclás," he answered his wife. She gave his hand a light squeeze. As much as she loved when he shared these little tidbits from his childhood, she hated the look of sadness that would steal the light from his eyes when he spoke of them.

"Well, here's your chance," she teased, in hopes of bringing the sparkle back to his eyes. His eyes narrowed at her before it clicked what she meant. He straightened his back abruptly.

"Don't be absurd. It wouldn't at all do for Remington Steele to be caught sitting on Santa's lap," he retorted, snootily. She gave an exaggerated look around them.

"I hate to injure that fragile ego of yours, Mr. Steele," she drawled, "but I don't think you've been recognized by a single person since we've been here." He let out an indignant little puff.

"Maybe not. But I assure you, if I were foolish enough to perch upon _Santa's_ lap, a reporter from LA Times would pop up and we'd never live it down."

"Coward," she muttered under her breath so Laurie Beth wouldn't hear.

"Oh, really. Seems a little wager is in order, Mrs. Steele," he challenged with the smile she was hoping to see return.

"Oh, and what do you have in mind, Mr. Steele?" she asked, brows raised.

"While you call me out for refusing to sit upon a grow-," glancing down at Laurie Beth, he realized his near slip, "Upon _Santa's_ lap, I am willing to wager you'd be unwilling to do it yourself."

"And if I do?" she smirked.

"I'll not only purchase but watch that… Oil?... movie with you this evening."

" _Grease_ ," she corrected. "The movie is _Grease_."

"If, however, you back out, as I'm sure you will, then…" he scratched his nose, giving it some thought, "…Then, you agree to relieve me from any further shopping duties for the remaining people on that list of yours." This time it was he that cast her the smug look.

"You're on," she agreed, holding out her hand.

"It's my turn! It's my turn!" Laurie Beth shrieked, dancing around under Laura's hand in her excitement.

"Go on, sweetie, we'll be right here," Laura encouraged then watched as her young niece skipped up to Santa before turning her attention back to her husband. "Well?"

"It's a wager," he agreed, shaking her hand, feeling confident that at least this wager he'd win, after a long drought of no victories for him. There was no way his refined, introverted wife would be caught sitting on Santa's lap in front of hundreds of people.

Remington's kept Laura's hand in his as they stood and watched their young niece talk animatedly with Santa Claus before turning to smile for the camera. She skipped her way back to the couple.

"It really is Santa Claus!" she enthused. "I pulled his beard and _everything!"_

"Well, I guess I'll have to see for myself, won't I?" Laura suggested to the little girl.

"You're going to go see Santa?" Laurie Beth asked, amazed. "But you're a grown up!"

"I am," Laura agreed. "Santa Claus is still one of my favorite people." With an impish smile in Remington's direction and a pat on Laurie Beth's head, she turned and walked toward Santa, planting herself firmly on his lap without the slightest hesitation.

Even Santa seemed surprised at this turn of events, but the actor took it in stride, laughing jollily.

"So, what would you like Santa to bring you this year, young lady?" he asked. She pretended to give it some thought, then instead pointed to the rings on her left hand.

"I've already gotten everything I've wanted this year," she said instead. Santa gave a deep belly laugh for the benefit of those watching.

"Congratulations," he told her in an undertone.

"Thank you." She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Santa's cheek for the photographer's benefit. That it seemed to tweak her husband's humor only made it all the sweeter. Standing, she bid Santa a Merry Christmas then returned to Remington and Laurie Beth.

"Shall we go get our pictures?" she asked her niece while holding out her hand to her. Laurie Beth took it without thought, but just stood staring at her.

"You kissed Santa!" she said in awe.

"I did," Laura agreed with a smile and a nod. "I wanted to thank him for the best present I've ever gotten." She slanted her eyes towards her husband and watched as he realized her meaning. He turned and looked at the crowds milling around them.

"Ah, bugger it," he muttered, stepping to her and kissing her hard, but swiftly. He expected a look of censure when he pulled back, but was pleased to find a pair of dimples flashing up at him instead.

"I should kiss Santa more often," she kidded.

"Like hell," he said quietly. Her laugher made his smile all the brighter. "Shall we?" he asked, holding his hand out towards the photographer. She gave him a nod, walking with Laurie Beth's hand in hers, while he held his hand to the small of her back.

Needless to say, he purchased not only Laurie Beth's pictures, but his wife's as well.

Surprisingly, Remington was relatively well-behaved during their late lunch in the food court. He griped a time or two about the lack of decent food selections until Laura reminded him…

"Better get used to it, if you want children that is. Most children aren't born with gourmet tastes, Mr. Steele."

The comment drew a laugh from Laurie Beth and a shake of his head from her husband.

Their second trip in a week to Kiddie City allowed them to officially wrap up their gift purchases for others. Laurie Beth assisted in picking out gifts for her sister and brother: art supplies for Mindy and model car kits for Danny, while Laura selected toys for her friends' three young sons. After Laurie Beth announced Candy Land was her 'favoritest game in the whole wide world,' Remington tossed it into the cart along with a couple of new coloring books and crayons to keep her occupied the remainder of the afternoon. A quick stop at the video store, and they returned to the Steele's home in Holmby Hills at a little after five.

The two adults sat at the coffee table with Laurie Beth, playing a game of Candy Land with her when the phone rang a half-hour later. Laura excused herself to answer the it.

"Hi, Frances," Laura greeted when her sister greeted her from the other side of the line. Laurie Beth's face fell at hearing her mother's name.

"What's wrong, ceann beag?" Remington asked the crestfallen little girl.

"I don't want to go home yet," she answered, looking down at the table.

"You don't, eh?" She shook her head in the negative, still not looking at him. "Maybe you should ask your Aunt if you can stay a little longer then, hmmm?" he suggested. Laurie Beth's head flew up, a smile growing on her face.

"Can I spend the night?" she asked tentatively.

"As long as it's okay with your Aunt and Mother, I don't see why not," he shrugged. He watched as his niece jumped up and ran through the dining room to Laura's side.

"Aunt Laura?" Laura held up a finger, indicating she should wait a second.

"Frances, really, it's fine if you're fifteen minutes late. You don't have to call to—"

"Aunt Laura?" she said more frantically, tugging at Laura's hand.

"Frances, hold on just a second," she directed into the phone. "What is it, sweetie?"

"Can I spend the night?" she asked anxiously. Laura glanced towards Remington who gave a shrug that clearly said 'it's fine with me.' She gave the idea some consideration. The day had been surprisingly smooth and Laurie Beth would be going to bed in only a couple of hours. She finally shrugged mentally to herself in answer.

"Frances, why doesn't Laurie Beth spend the night here tonight? The three of us are in the middle of a very intense game of Candy Land and we need to determine the victor." Her niece's face lit up with a smile. "No, honestly, we'd enjoy it… She can just wear one of my t-shirts. It will do nicely as a nightgown for her… Yes, ten o'clock would be fine… Alright, we'll see you tomorrow then."

"I can stay!" she announced to Remington happily.

"So I heard," he acknowledged as she kneeled back down next to the coffee table.

"Any ideas for dinner, Mr. Steele?" Laura asked pointedly. He looked at her, baffled for a minute, as she'd watched as he'd pulled salmon out of the freezer to thaw that morning. She looked pointedly at Laurie Beth. _Ah._

"I suppose I could manage to whip up grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and some French fries. How does that sound?" Laurie Beth perked up at that.

"Can I help?" she asked eagerly.

"Mmmm," he hummed, "You can indeed. Let's finish our game first, though, eh?"

Laurie Beth was the gleeful victor of the game. After, she helped with dinner preparations, carefully placing two pieces of cheese and two pieces of tomato on each sandwich, followed by five carrot sticks on each of their plates. She declared the finished product the 'bestest' she'd ever had while they ate.

Following dinner, she and Aunt Laura stretched out on the living room floor, sipping hot chocolate before the fire and coloring together in her new coloring books. Remington pulled out his sketchbook and began to produce a rough rendering of the scene before him, which he would complete in the upcoming days. Laura glanced at him from time-to-time and found in his eyes that same look of longing she'd witnessed earlier in the day, carefully hidden with a smile each time she found his eyes upon him. At eight o'clock, she took Laurie Beth upstairs for a bath, and the little girl, donning one of Laura's t-shirts, was securely tucked into bed. Uncle Remington was elected to tell her a bedtime story, as he did in a way only he was capable of. Laurie Beth giggled here, stared at him wide-eyed and open mouthed there, but ultimately sleep won and stole her away.

Remington and Laura altered their plans, slightly, to take into consideration the little girl sleeping over for the evening, moving their movie night up to the bedroom. Laura showered as Remington retrieved the movie from downstairs, along with a bottle of chilled chardonnay and two glasses. Trading places in the shower, Laura took charge of locking up the house for the evening. At last, a little before ten, they stretched out on the couch in their bedroom to watch _Grease_ together.

To her husband's credit, he managed to swallow all but a couple of guffaws and superior commentaries. She suspected that was due to his fascination with Olivia Newton-John in the role of Sandy. _Blondes, always blondes,_ she groused to herself with a roll of her eyes. The suspicion was confirmed when he began to lay a trail of soft kisses down her neck.

"Wouldn't happen to have one of those skirts tucked away, would you?" he breathed against her neck. She pursed her lips.

"In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Steele, I'm not a blonde. It would hardly play to your fantasy." She tried to keep her voice light, but his reference was hitting a little too close to the home in which her insecurities revolving around his past conquests lived. At least this particular blonde obsession wasn't tall, curvy and stacked. She fought back her sigh. His fingers moved to the buttons of the pajama shirt she was wearing.

"Mmmm. Hardly what catches my interest. I've a new standard, have had for quite some time," he murmured from beneath her ear.

"Oh, do tell," she managed a bit breathily as his mouth laved and gently suckled at her skin.

"Slim…" his lips returned to her neck "petite…" he nibbled, while shifting her to her back "delightfully…" then moved to stretch out over her "prim and proper…" a kiss pressed upon her jaw "talented…" then cheek "lovely singing voice…" before his lips found hers, tasting and teasing before journeying back down her neck.

"Such a sweet talker," she laughed quietly, while threading her fingers through his hair and arching her neck, humming when his lips lingered at the base of her throat. "You do realize…" she gasped, when he suckled firmly on her skin, "I'm a pretty much a sure thing these days, right?" His lips grazed over her shoulder. She looked down as his sure fingers released one button after the next. Her hands left his hair to rest on his shoulder, before she drew her fingers, feather soft, down his back. He moaned quietly.

"Thank God," he mumbled, his lips and tongue blazing a path from neck to breast. She gasped when his mouth unerringly found the tip of a peaked nipple, a hand returning to bury itself in his hair, as the other rhythmically stroked his back, scattering goosebumps across his skin. With a groan, he ground his hips against her. "Laura, love?" he gasped around a mouthful of breast, before pulling firmly upon the hardened tip.

"Oh, God," she panted. She had to force the word past her hips. "What?" His mouth moved to her other breast to take possession of it.

"Here or in our bed?" Her hands pressed against his shoulders until he hauled himself up in a sitting position, looking at her with glazed, hungry eyes. She sat on his lap, knees on either side of his hips, shrugging off the pajama top in the process. Eager fingers raked through his chest hair, as her mouth latched onto his shoulder. A hand settled on her lower back, stroking _that_ place. Her mouth stopped its ministrations as she panted against his skin at the touch.

"Here," she breathed the word, helplessly rocking against his rigid erection in response to the touch. She pushed up on her knees when his thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties, his mouth finding her breast again as he skimmed her panties down over her hips.

They froze in motion at the knock on the bedroom door, each staring at the other. A second knock had their heads turning towards the sound.

"Aunt Laura? Uncle Remington?" came a small voice from the other side, sending the two adults within the room scurrying into action. Laura yanked her panties back in place and lunged off the couch for her shirt. Remington jumped to his feet, looking a bit confused and raking a hand through his hair. She took one look at the rather impressive tent in his pajama pants and pointed towards the closet.

"Get a robe on," she hissed, while walking quickly across the room to their bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, she opened it, finding Laurie Beth on the other side wide-eyed and sucking her thumb.

"I'm scared," the little girl whispered in a small voice around her thumb. "Can I sleep with you?" Laura glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who was tying his robe closed, with considerable desperation written across her face.

"Of course you can, ceann beag," Remington answered, crossing the room to swing his young niece up in his arms. He stared past Laurie Beth at his wife's swollen lips, flushed skin, and still rapidly rising and falling chest, with a great deal of regret in his eyes as he raised his brows at her in a manner that clearly said 'what choice do we have?'

Taking several deep breaths and releasing them slowly, Laura concentrated on controlling her raging need for the man before her. Walking to the bed she pulled back the covers and climbed in, then waited for Remington to lay Laurie Beth down next to her. Turning on her side, she wrapped an arm around the little girl and drew her close.

"Did you have a nightmare?" she managed to ask, as some of her sensibilities began to restore themselves.

Laurie Beth nodded and acknowledged the question with a small, "Yes".

On the other side of the bed, Remington stripped off his robe and stretched out on his back, pulling sheet and comforter up over the three of them. Laura reached behind her and grasped his hand, tugging him to her. He spooned his body around hers, then lay an arm over top of the one she had around their small niece. She searched her mind for the remedy to nightmares, then recalled the few times her own mother had comforted her.

"Do you want me to sing to you? Would that help?" she inquired. Laurie Beth nodded her head.

In short order, Laura's voice softly wafted through the room as she sang _All Through the Night_ while stroking the little girl's hair. Behind her, Remington nuzzled his chin against the top of his wife's head and closed his eyes. The moment, tranquil and poignant, tugged at his heart strings, the thought of he and Laura one day lying like this with their child as his wife sung to him or her moistening his eyes behind their lids. Unaware he was doing so, he pressed his body all the closer to her lithe frame. When the song ended, the room was so quiet, Laurie Beth's quiet, evening breathing could be heard.

After several minutes had passed, Laura began to grow nervous, wondering exactly how put out he was that their lovemaking had ended before it had truly begun.

"Remington?" She kept her voice low, so as not to wake the little girl sleeping next to her.

"Hmmmm?"

"I'm sorry." He leaned back and frowned at the top of her head.

"Whatever for?" His puzzlement was clear in his voice.

"That our plans were… um…. Interrupted." He snorted quietly behind her.

"Surely you don't think I'm put out because our niece needed our attentions?" he asked, a bit appalled.

"Are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he puffed. "Why ever would you even think such a thing?"

"You've not said a word—" He interrupted her with a shake of his head and a heavy exhale.

"Simply a bit overwhelmed for a spell. It's not every day a man has his arm around his wife and a child as his wife sings that child to sleep. It set me to thinking…" he trailed off. She tangled her fingers with the ones lying atop hers.

"About?" He propped himself up on an elbow and ran a hand across his face.

"How fortunate she is to have people wishing to comfort her after a bad dream…" Releasing Laurie Beth and turning only ever so slightly, she leaned back her head to look at him and to hold a hand against his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. "How fortunate any child of ours will be to have two parents that will see to it he or she has the same."

Her brown eyes were solemn with understanding and grief, as her mind finished the thought for him: _As he never had anyone do for him as a child, left, instead, alone and afraid._ As she frequently did in moments such as these, she silently wished to purgatory all the adults who had failed him as a child. Instead, she nodded her agreement.

"They will." Her voice was quiet but firm. Her hand shifted, so her thumb could caress his lower lip as she cocked her head and considered him. "Are you prepared to relinquish a good deal of our personal time, our privacy?" He lifted his brows at her.

"To have moments like this with our own child?" He nodded his head slowly, the look on his face as he leaned down to buss her on the forehead almost reverent. " _Absolutely."_ Lacing her fingers with his again, she lay down and wrapped both of their arms around herself and Laurie Beth.

"It was a good day, wasn't it, Mr. Steele?" she pondered aloud. Shifting, he pressed his cheek to hers.

"A _very_ good day, Mrs. Steele," he agreed. Unable to resist, she circled her bottom against him.

"Lau-ra," he growled warningly. She laughed quietly.

"In spite of being interrupted?"

"Even in spite of," he confirmed.

She lay quietly for some time, contemplating the day that was coming to a close. Unlike her prior attempts to get her feet damp on the parenting front, today she'd handled the duties with ease. Even more surprising, she'd enjoyed the time they had spent with Laurie Beth. They'd changed their plans for the day fluidly and with ease to accommodate the hopes and needs of the little girl, yet had still accomplished everything they'd set out to do. They'd handed off and assumed responsibility for her niece as though they were old hands in such matters. She pursed her lips and pursued that train of thought. Maybe it simply boiled down to the number of years they'd shared a professional partnership and friendship. They were, after all, old pros at rolling with the punches, at changing thoughts and tactics on a dime, on picking the other up when they fell down. Could it so easily translate into parenthood? After today, she thought it was very, very possible.

Their differences had always complemented each other. He was instinct, she was logic. He was spontaneity, she was calculated decisions. He was adventure, she was stability. He often walked among the clouds, while her feet were planted firmly upon the earth. He was emotion, she was common sense. He was creativity, she pragmatism.

 _We make one hell of a team._ And therein, she realized, lay the key to successively transitioning from a couple to parents and family.

"Rem?" His eyes blinked open in surprise. She'd been quiet so long, he would have sworn she'd fallen asleep some time ago.

"Yes, love?"

"What I'm about to say is going to sound very selfish at first. Promise to hear me through?" she asked quietly. She felt him shift behind her.

"You have my word," he agreed.

"If…. When … we do this, you and I… our relationship, _our marriage_ has to come first… before everything, even our children." He scratched at the side of his nose, perplexed, but held his silence as agreed. "You and I, our relationship, will determine how our children see their home, how they view their future relationships, it will determine if they grow up secure and happy, or reach adulthood remembering unhappiness and loss as we did." He shifted further back as she released Laurie Beth and wriggled around to face him. "I don't want our children afraid to love, to not trust in it. If they see love, if they live surrounded by it, they won't run from it but strive to create and embrace it." She lifted aching brown eyes to his and held the tips of her fingers to his neck. "And on the truly selfish side, _I'm_ not willing to lose _this._ I want a family, but not if the cost is us. I need to know we'll find time for us each day and I don't mean at work."

Heady stuff, that's what it was, for his normally reticent wife to share thoughts… feelings… such as these. He wasn't sure what surprised him more: that she'd put so much thought on how she wanted their children to be raised, or her admission of how important their relationship had become to her. Whichever the reason, or both, she'd once again found a way to hold his trembling heart in her hand. With a single finger he traced her cheek then jaw, before laying his hand beneath her chin.

"Ah, Laura, if you're selfish, then so am I. I've waited four years for only the hope of having this. Do you really think I'd let it go so easily?" His hand left her chin, to brush her hair over her shoulder. "When will you believe that my dreams, my hopes for a family, all begin and end with you?" He reached for her hand and brushed his thumb over her wedding band. "Our rings, what they say, stand as a testament of your place in my life, not only today, but the rest of _our_ days." She bit at her lower lip, as her eyes sparkled with joy. "As for finding time for us? I believe I've said before: it will take _at least_ until our silver anniversary to make up for the first four years, and given we continue only adding to that time… " he shrugged, as he leaned in to touch his lips to hers, "… it won't be long before I'll have to extend that to our golden." Her quiet laughter made his heart beat faster. Oh, how he loved the sound of her happiness, unrestrained.

With a brush of her lips across his cheek and a stroke of her fingers through his hair, Laura flipped back over and placed her arm around Laurie Beth. Like a moth to the flame, Remington followed behind, spooning his body to hers and tangling the fingers of their joined hands.

"The very spice of life, Miss Holt," he murmured next to her ear.

"That's Mrs. Steele to you, big guy, and don't you forget it!" she whispered back. Licking the tip of his finger, he glided his finger down her neck the blew on it, smiling at the shiver he felt course through her body.

"Ah, as though I could forget. And tomorrow? I plan to spend most of the day making sure you don't either." Laying his mouth next to her ear, he whispered, "Get your sleep, Mrs. Steele. You're going to need it."

"I'll hold you to that, Mr. Steele." Pulling his arm tighter around herself, she closed her eyes and let his steady, familiar breathing lull her to sleep.

(TBC)


	27. Chapter 27: Six Months

_**A/N: The following two chapters will take us through Christmas Eve. Christmas Day and the conclusion of Steele Thankful will be posted Friday evening. I would like to say thank you, so, so much to SteeleRSFan4ever and 'Guest' for their review this week. Their words were like a Christmas present in and of themselves and truly touched my heart. Oh, and Doey10… Don't worry. I'm writing, writing, writing!**_

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Chapter 27: Six Months

The Remington Steele Agency officially closed its doors for the holiday season from December 22 until January 5th, 1986. Given Mildred would be spending the better part of the holiday in Seattle with her sister, Eunice, and nephew, Bernard, Laura and Remington had her over to the house on the twenty-second for a private holiday celebration. She was thrilled with the scarf and purse given to her by the couple and beside herself over the very generous holiday bonus she found tucked in her new purse. When she departed that evening, the Steele's jointly realized that the upcoming thirteen days until the office reopened would be the longest span of time in three and half years that they had gone without Mildred – well except in Remington's case, the summer prior. A bit of melancholy hung in the air, as Mildred had long past become less an employee to both of them and more of extended family.

Christmas Eve day held dual import for the couple. Not only would they officially begin holiday celebrations on that evening with the Pipers and attend midnight mass afterwards with the entire extended family, but it also happened the day marked the six-month anniversary of what both considered by now to be their 'real' wedding. Both were alternately vexed to realize they would be unable to celebrate the event on the actual day of, or even the day after, as holiday commitments had them fully occupied. Thus, it was decided, they would honor the milestone the day prior, starting with dinner at Chez Rives, followed by the ballet, then a private celebration afterwards.

Attendance of the Christmas favorite, _The Nutcracker,_ was a tradition in and of itself. Five years prior, only a few months after Remington's arrival at the Agency, he'd presented Laura with box seat tickets to the same ballet, extracting from her the promise that it would be he that escorted her. She'd pretended reluctant agreement at the time. After all, the two of them had shared only a solitary kiss at that point… and a hundred arguments, as he'd persisted in insinuating himself more and more in cases, her personal life. Secretly, however, she'd been thrilled. An actual date, just the two of them, planned well in advance. He and a tux, she in a gown. She'd looked forward to it for weeks, had worried which Mr. Steele would accompany her – the glib, devil-may-care, superficial persona he wore like a cloak, or the man she'd seen glimpses of underneath that veneer? She dearly hoped it would be the latter, for that was the man to which she was drawn, the man she suspected he really was.

He hadn't disappointed. He was relaxed, courteous, charming, sincere and, always shocking in those days, extraordinarily gentle in his handling of her. There had been none of his customary remarks about hopping in the sack. To the contrary, he'd … romanced her. Easy enough to admit these days, only adding to her constantly conflicting emotions surrounding him then. It wouldn't occur to her for a while yet that he craved a connection with her, a very real one.

The following year, there hadn't been any question of who would escort her. While neither had labeled what they were to one another during that second year, now both would be hard pressed, today, to deny they were exclusively seeing one another. In fact, they lived in one another's pockets, working all day together, spending nearly every evening together. They were rarely apart, except when they slept. And in the year that followed, after Cannes? Easily enough to define what they were then, her decision had seen to it: professional associates who were struggling even to hold onto the remaining threads of their friendship. Once again, tickets had been presented, and on that one night, the agreement to maintain a purely professional relationship was set aside. It had taken a bit, but by midway through dinner the easy banter of their friendship had returned. By night's end both of their bodies were reverberating with need which they assuaged only in part, back in his apartment, with a session of heavy necking before she'd fled and the agreement once more ruled their lives. She'd often wondered in the two years since that evening, if it had paved the way to her finally confessing the agreement was a mistake.

Last year, committed to one another, it had simply been a given they would attend and attend together.

Somehow, it seemed… fitting… that they'd celebrate the six-month anniversary of their marriage on the night of _The Nutcracker_. Like their friendship, this occasion had managed to endure throughout the years, no matter where they stood in their romantic relationship.

The only pall hanging over the evening, at least in Laura's eyes, was the boot. _The damned boot_. It seemed the unwanted appendage had been a part of her daily life for years, not months. She wanted to put on a gown and a strappy pair of heels, to see Remington's eyes light up as he cast an appreciative glance down her body, then motioned with a twirl of his finger to turn around full circle for him. She wanted to arrive at Chez Rives as the couple that were the epitome of elegance and grace. She wanted to press close to her husband as they danced after dinner. All of these desires thwarted by the ungainly slab of plastic and rubber attached to her. And, in the manner she dealt with anything which interfered with her plans, she made the unilateral decision to eradicate it. After all, she'd worn it faithfully the last four weeks, two-thirds of way through the proscribed sentence, and she'd been making much better strides in PT than had been expected.

To that end, she descended the staircase of their home toward Remington wearing a red silk, floor length sheath that fastened around her neck, leaving her shoulders and arms bare, while subtly framing the soft curves of her petite frame. Her feet were adorned with the coveted, strappy little three-inch heels accented by sparkling rhinestones. His heated gaze raked over her body, made her feel stunningly beautiful, desirable, as she always did when she saw herself through his eyes… as every woman wanted to feel on an occasion such as this. Stepping to her, he lifted her hand in his and, bowing, pressed his lips to her knuckles while holding her eyes with his – a reenactment of an evening more than four years before, that had left her as breathless as it did now. Her eyes glimmered with happiness and her skin flushed radiantly. The smug satisfaction on his face which said his action had produced exactly the results he had hoped should have left her annoyed, yet she could only smile as he'd just shown through deed how that moment years ago had led to this one today. Straightening up, he cupped her face in his hands.

"Tá tú an chuisle mo chroí, an t-amhrán ar m'anam, bhfianaise mo shaol. Tá tú mo ghrá is áille," he vowed softly, before tipping her head back and kissing her with a tenderness that left her clutching his shoulders and eyes dazed when the kiss ended. She tilted her head in question at him even as her hands whispered across his shoulders to clasp the back of his neck and draw him back to her. When their lips parted he drew her up in his arms to lay his mouth near her ear. "You are the pulse of my heart, the song of my soul, the light of my life. You are my most beautiful love," he whispered in a gruff voice, the words so easily said in Gaelic, still so gut clenching to utter in English. If not for the import of the occasion, he may well not have found it within him to share the translation, reverting instead to normal form, a teasing remark meant to challenge her to discover the intent by her own accord.

Yet, the body which pressed closer, the lips that touched and lingered upon his neck soothed, heartened, made the risk worthwhile, as did the words next said which warmed both heart and blood.

"I love you, Rem," she whispered in return, her warm breath caressing his ear. He closed his eyes at the sound of her nickname for him crossing her lips.

"And I, you…" he returned before leaning back and raising a brow at her, "… enough so that for just this one night I'll pretend to be oblivious to your wanton disregard of doctor's orders, with, of course, a stipulation." She had the decency to appear chagrined for the most infinitesimal of seconds, before raising her brows and pursing her lips.

"Oh? And that would be?" She was willing to allow him the latitude of believing himself to have any real say in the matter as he'd made it clear surrender had occurred before battle even begun.

"That you'll not press matters and should the occasion arrive when your ankle can bear no further weight, you'll return to the boot." She pretended to give his request due consideration although she was confident they both knew she'd never so much as utter a peep.

"Done." His hands glided down her back, over her hips, then stroked her bottom. With a shake of her head and a lift of her eyes towards the ceiling, she laughed quietly, knowing what he was about. "You'll have to employ that licentious imagination of yours until we get home, Mr. Steele," she advised with a shake of her head. His index finger slipped under the bodice, and tugging slightly, as he attempted to peek beneath. She slapped her hands against her chest, while raising a brow at him. "After we get home, Mr. Steele."

"Aw," he groaned in complaint, although his eyes twinkled with amusement as he turned to pick up her coat off the balustrade. He held it as she slipped her arms in. He bussed her neck, supremely touched that she'd chosen to wear the white fox coat he'd given her the Christmas prior.

They'd opted to take the Auburn on this evening, wishing for privacy and with valet parking offered at both venues, parking would not be an issue. Claude fawned over them when they arrived, most especially Laura, whom he'd once told Remington was the 'finest of a staggering array' of women he'd trotted through the restaurant in those first weeks he was with the Agency. Dinner on this evening in this place was significant for Remington, as it was here he'd predicted the possible end of his Lothario ways because of the woman standing beside him now.

" _ **Does monsieur intend to bestow a name plate on her?"**_

 _ **"Possibly."**_

 _ **"They're solid brass, you know. And I'm afraid your largess is beginning to run into big bucks."**_

 _ **"Well, if I do, it could very well be the last one I dispense."**_

It hadn't even occurred to him, the import of the words he'd spoken, until he'd arrived home that evening. By that point, Wallace's body had been positively identified by him and Laura; he'd battered the morgue attendant about for a short bit after the man had dismissed Wallace as just another junkie; stunningly. Laura had vowed they would find the murderer of his friend… together; and, of course, he'd found a man trying to choke the life out of Laura. He'd sat on the couch, two fingers of a fine scotch in hand, mulling over the evening's events.

Contrary to Laura's claims a week prior, it appeared to him, at least, this job of hers required as much brawn as brains. In the past day alone, Wallace had been murdered and someone had attempted to put an end to Miss Holt's life as well. Not exactly a desk job, lending all the more appeal to it. However, he had a healthy respect for keeping his hide in one piece and had to wonder how long he'd be able to do so in this particular trade. In the last decade, as he'd relieved various galleries and individuals of priceless jewels and art, he'd made a few enemies: Kessler and Neff, the Palermo Brothers, and the Dublin Crusher came to mind. A half-dozen individuals total in eleven or so years that wouldn't mind extracting a pound of his flesh. No, his concerns better rested on various law enforcement agencies determined reveal his identity… that was where the true threat to his person lay. Yet, Miss Holt seemed to stockpile enemies rather rapidly in this vocation of her choice; enemies that didn't want a piece of hide, but one's life breath.

In truth, it was part of what mesmerized him about her. Not the collection of enemies, rather her fearlessness in the face of them. Her determination to right injustices. Her petite frame that incited something within himself totally foreign before now: An unrelenting impulse to gather her close and keep her safe from harm. A small part of him wondered if she was aware of his past deeds, if she'd see the divine justice behind them as well… not that he'd willingly put that thought to the test. Brazen yet humble; tempestuous yet cool headed; impulsive yet logical; critical yet kind; prim and proper yet daring and impulsive; demanding yet forgiving; passionate yet restrained. The list of her contradictions was endless, and kept his rapt fascination. She simply bewitched him.

He had to have her, make her his, to know the fiery temptress he was certain she'd be. As Claude had said this evening, she was the finest of all the women he'd escorted to Chez Rives. A niggling voice in his head insisted on editing that thought: she was the finest of all the women he'd _ever_ known. She was all he wanted, all he feared, all wrapped up in a package so tantalizing he couldn't resist the lure. A challenge he could not deny himself, so much so he'd forgone the pursuit of the Royal Lavulite in favor of the pursuit of her, of what they might be. And therein lie the realization that was terrifying enough to see him tossing back the remainder of scotch. When he'd volunteered to Claude it might be the last nameplate he'd ever bestow, he had a sneaking suspicion he hadn't meant just LA, but ever.

Now, on the night they were honoring the sixth month of their marriage, he chuckled softly to himself as he lifted in his hand the brass nameplate reserving their table for them. Of course, observant woman that she was, her eyes had narrowed upon him immediately.

"Should I ask?"

Well, dunderhead that he was then to even consider giving this woman one of those silly brass nameplates, no one could call him a fool these days, especially when it came to the woman across from him. She'd surely have his head on a platter should she realize he'd ever dared lump her in with his former liaisons, by nameplate alone or not. Dropping the nameplate back in its holder, he leaned forward to brush his fingertips across the back of her hand.

"I was just recalling our first time here, and your marvelous display of temper," he prevaricated, a fond smile lifting his lips. She turned her hand over to grip his.

"You barked at me to sit down. I was stunned…"

"You were causing a scene. It was not at all in keeping with the image we had to maintain," he defended good naturedly.

"Then you complimented me…"

"And you told me you hated it when I was nice to you." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and laughed.

"You confused the hell out of me."

"You dazzled me."

The wine steward arrived at their table bearing a magnum of Dom Perignon. After a nod of approval from Remington, the steward uncorked the wine, poured each of them a glass, then deposited the open bottle into the ice bucket before giving them a half-bow and departing.

"Do you always do things on such a grand scale, Mr. Steele?" He raised a brow at her, acknowledging she'd caught his intent.

"Only when I'm aroused… by my wife," he responded smoothly, as held his champagne glass aloft. "To six months of wedded bliss."

They tapped glasses then entwined arms, lips touching, lingering longer than either would normally allow in public. When they separated, she blinked hard then stared at his startling blue eyes, while trying to kick her brain into gear.

"Feeling nostalgic tonight, are we?"

"As well I should," he answered simply yet sincerely. His eyes darkened in a manner she'd only recently understood meant deep emotion. "It's these moments, in part, which changed my life… gave me you." She lifted his hand, and pressed lips to palm.

"And me you."

Their waiter arrived, interrupting the moment, setting before them Quiche au Rouquefort et aux Poireaux to begin their meal. Laura took a bite of the quiche, savoring the taste of blue cheese and leeks blending.

"Have I ever told you what Murphy said to me after overhearing me tell Bernice 'Ben Pearson' had bought me a magnum of champagne?" she inquired with a laugh. Remington's eyes twinkled in response.

"Do tell…"

Their meal of Lamb Noisette and Salade Frisée was peppered by reminiscing of the lighter, more amusing memories of their four-year dance. They laughed often and glancing touches were frequent. Appetites sated and with a little under an hour before they were due to arrive at the ballet, they took to the dance floor.

Laura melted into his arms, then rolled her eyes and kicked herself in the shin mentally. But, the truth was she'd missed dancing with this man. Throughout the nearly four and a half years since his arrival in her life, there were seldom prolonged gaps between the last time and the next time they took to their feet under the strains of gentle jazz. She could only speculate in how his hand pressed a little more firmly than normal against the small of her back that he'd missed it as well. A tug of her hand bringing her a touch closer and the words following confirmed her suspicions.

"Ah, I've missed this," he murmured. She leaned back to look at him, her eyes glimmering under the soft lights of the restaurant.

"So have I," she admitted.

"To think, this time next week we'll be in Paris." He bowed his head to look at her. "It's only taken me four years to get you there, at last."

"Should I ask if you've already planned out our time there?" A hand stroked his shoulder before slipping behind his neck, her fingers toying softly in his hair.

"Have you any doubt?" he smiled down at her. "The Louvre, of course, although not for the typical works of the old masters. Certainly I, as much as any art connoisseur, appreciate their works, but I've always most admired the studies of Antoine Blanchard's, the Quai du Louvre West Side and East Side. His brush strokes, his use of light… He brings the very romance of Paris to life in his works." He looked down at her, mischief dancing in his eyes though she had no idea why. "The jewels of the Duchess of Angouleme and of course of the Empress Marie-Louise." She groaned aloud.

"Please don't tell me you attempted to… relieve… the museum of those pieces at some point." He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Well, you know my fascination for anything that glitters…"

"And you want to _go there?_ Have you lost your mind?" Another chuckle from him.

"Just having a bit of fun with you. The pieces are legitimately on display at the Louvre. There was never call to retrieve them." She swatted his shoulder with a laugh, and relaxed under his hands again.

"Only the one museum?"

"No, the Musee D'Orsay I should think as well. There are several pieces that have been added since last I was there that I believe you'd enjoy as well. Monet's La Rue Montorgueil and Renoir's Danse a la ville. I believe you'd find a great deal of enjoyment in Degas' pastel, Dancers." Her hand unconsciously stroked from shoulder to elbow and back again.

"Sounds lovely. What else do you have in store for us?"

"The Pantheon. Overdone, though it may be, there is a reason why. The statuary is something to behold as is the extraordinary architecture, many of the details centuries before their time. Lunch at Fabrizio's on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine, weather permitting." He peered down at her, eyes alight. "Dancing alone the Seine at twilight, should you manage to not fight me too much on your boot while we're there."

"Dancing in Paris," she breathed. "For _that_ you may just find me _very_ cooperative."

"A stroll through Pere Lachaise. Although a cemetery, the cobblestone walkways, the mausoleums which resemble little Wendy houses, combine to create a surprisingly romantic excursion. Chopin, Proust, Moliere, Rodenbach are buried amongst it streets," he lifted his brow at her as though in challenge, "As are Abelard and Heloise."

"As in _The Love Letters of Abelard and Heloise_?"

"The very ones," he confirmed with a nod. "Today, lovers from across the globe leave their own letters at their grave. And last, but by no means least, a visit to the vineyard Clos de Montmartre and lunch at La Maison Rose." She looked up at him, surprised.

"No customary tours of the Arc de Triomphe and Eiffel Tower?"

"The Arc de Triomphe involves a traipse up two-hundred-eighty-four stairs. Do you imagine you're up tromping up then back down those stairs with that boot of yours?" She frowned at him, but recalling the promise of dancing along the Seine, held her peace. "As for the Eiffel Tower? I imagine we'll see much more of it than you might imagine."

"That's quite an itinerary you have planned for us. How are we going to accomplish it in little more than a day?"

"I, ah, took the liberty of slightly altering our plans," he told her with a tug at his ear. She looked at him warily. _Give the man an inch…_

"We agreed, Mr. Steele, that we'd reopen the offices the Monday following the holiday," she reproached.

"And we still will. I simply changed our flight from Cannes on the thirtieth to the twenty-eighth when Monroe and Jacqueline depart for the slopes, allowing us part of Sunday and Tuesday to ourselves, and the entirety of Monday. I thought we'd invite Monroe and Jacqueline along for the trip to Clos de Montmartre on Thursday." She nodded her approval, while he lifted his arm behind her shoulder to glance at his watch.

"We need to be on our way, if we wish to be on time." Reluctantly, he bussed her on the cheek then disengaged the arms that had been holding her. With a great deal of regret on her own part, Laura led the way back to their table with Remington's hand on the small of her back.

The ballet, as always, was captivating. There was no denying, however, there was a significantly different undercurrent playing out all on its own quite off the stage than had in years past. Prior years, they'd taken great care… at least Laura had, much to Remington's chagrin… to appear as two business colleagues partaking in a traditional holiday event with the added benefit of intermission permitting time for some beneficial networking for the Agency. This year, they made no attempt to hide their personal relationship, he keeping an arm at her waist while they mingled during intermission, she frequently caressing his upper arm when she spoke with him. In their private box, their hands often sought one another whether to link fingers or, far more often as the night drew on, for fingers to caress lightly over a hand, an arm. _Foreshadowing of what lies ahead this evening_ , she thought to herself as she imagined his featherlight touch against her bare waist, her breasts, the silken skin of her thighs, her blood soon humming with desire for the man. He was no less affected than she, often glancing in her direction with a white hot intensity, and, on more than one occasion, shifting in his seat.

In the Auburn on the way home, Laura continued to increase the temperature, turning her full, heated gaze on him often, her fingers caressing his leg, her hand stroking shoulder to fingertip before toying with his fingers, her hand only leaving his to stroke through his hair. It was no surprise then, although she let out a shriek of laughter, that he quite literally swept her off her feet the instant the front door closed, taking the stairs two at a time. In their room, he released her to slide down his body, even as his skillful fingers released the zipper on her dress.

"I believe you promised me a surprise," he murmured, drawing the fabric away from her neck so his lips could graze, his teeth nip gently.

With a sultry smile, Laura took two steps back and shrugged off her dress revealing a pink satin camisole with matching panties and a pair of sheer white stockings. The outfit accentuated her tiny waist, the gentle curve of her hips, and shapely legs. On any number of women from his past, the ensemble would have been attractive. But on Laura? It was a mix of the virginal and the sinful, and had the effect of making his blood roar in his ears as it rushed south.

"My God," he breathed, stepping to her to trace the outline of her form with both hands.

"Happy Anniversary, Mr. Steele," she smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing his head down for a heated kiss.

"You keep wearing contraptions like this, Mrs. Steele, you may well kill me before our first anniversary." He skimmed his flattened hand down her back from neck to bottom, before stroking the lacy top of her stockings while his lips trailed across her collarbone.

"I take it you like it then?" she teased, raking her nails lightly down the length his spine, leaving him breathing hard against her shoulder.

"If you have to ask, it seems I'll have to show you,"

"Well, you know what you always say… Deeds—"

She was unable to finish the thought when he crushed her to him locking his lips over hers. His hands grasped her hips, pulling her with him as he backed towards their bed, then dragged her atop of his body as he lay back. He groaned in dismay when she smoothly extricated herself from his grasp and climbed off the bed.

"Lau-ra, I know we've enjoyed sharing many a memory this evening, but you taking flight at a moment like this is one I'd prefer never to revisit again," he groused. Pushing himself up, he removed his jacket and watched as she crossed the room to her dresser. Laughing, she turned to look at him over her shoulder. And she took his breath away again.

He'd waited a lifetime for this, it sometimes seemed. The reticent woman gone. In her place, the woman before him: unabashedly strolling about their room in lingerie that could only be described as heart stopping; those bedazzling freckles on glorious display; smiling that smile in which the adored dimples flashed at him; who wanted him without hesitation or reservation.

 _Who can still set my blood to boiling then drift away as though it had affected her not in the least_ , he grumbled silently while removing his bow tie. Tossing it down, he crossed the room to her, gathering to her from behind, nuzzling her neck.

"Laura, love," he hummed against her neck, his lips finding that spot below her ear and laving tenderly. He smiled as she tremored slightly, a hand burrowing in his hair as she arched her neck giving him better access.

"This first," she somehow managed, clutching his hand and guiding him back to the bed.

"Well what have we here?" he asked, holding the wrapped box she pressed into his hand.

"Happy Anniversary," she grinned at him. He turned the box to and fro.

"I didn't get you anything, I didn't realize…"

"And I didn't get you anything for the anniversary of your arrival at the Agency," she pointed out. "Open it."

With a final look at her, he pulled off the ribbon and tore at the paper, showing it no mercy. He grinned when she squeezed her eyes shut at the sound. There were still some things that remained the same, such as her penchant for wanting to save wrapping paper. His brows raised at the Tiffany & Co insignia. Opening the box, he extracted the jewelers case, then snapped open the lid. Given she had given him a watch the Christmas prior, she was a bit nervous, despite the fact the man liked to accessorize watch to suit, much like his ties.

"An Atlas Dome. It's remarkable, love."

"It's inscribed," she noted. He turned the watch over and read the inscription on the back.

"'Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours. 6-24-86,'" he read aloud. "Beethoven. The Immortal Beloved letters from the book we read in Vail, isn't it?"

"It is," she smiled, thrilled that he'd remembered. "It reminds me of the sailboat—"

"In Greece, and our pledges to one another," he finished. Emotion swamped him as he remembered that day on the boat, and now in his hand he held physical proof of those vows they'd exchanged, her willingness claim to him. Setting the watch on the bedside table, he cupped her head in his hands and drew her lips upwards to his. "You've no idea what it means to me."

He covered his lips with hers, kissing her tenderly, thoroughly. Wrapping an arm about her and pressing his other hand to the back of her head to keep their mouths connected, he neatly rolled so they lay stretched across the length of the bed. Only when her hands clutched his shoulders, fingers contracting and she hummed low in her throat, did he end the kiss. Pressing up on his elbows, breathing shallowly, white hot blue eyes reveled in her pinkened skin, dazed yet glimmering eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her hands slid up the back of his neck, stroking, playing in his hair. He closed his eyes as a shiver raced down his spine at her touch. Sliding his arms under her shoulders, his fingers stroked the side of her face as sultry amber eyes connected with ardor filled blue ones. Closing his eyes again, he leaned his forehead to hers.

"Laura… I love you," he whispered gruffly. One hand buried itself in his hair, keeping him close, while the other stroked his shoulder.

"I know, but show me anyway, huh?" she answered just as quietly. He nodded his head.

"That I can do," he promised.

They lost themselves in body and heart, he determined to give to her every bit of pleasure he could as he fairly worshipped her lovely form. Deft fingers traced her gentle curves, trailed over her skin. Soft lips paid homage to dapples of color scattered over creamy skin, lingered endlessly along the column of her neck. Teeth nibbled on fingertips, gently along the sensitive skin of her collarbone. A mouth and tongue paid reverent attention to the inside of wrists, elbows and knees, and delighted in providing exquisite contemplation to the peaks of breasts. The early light of dawn bathed the bedroom in diffused light as their bodies merged and found trembling splendor for the third and final time. Remington lay his damp head upon the hollow between her breasts, wrapping his arms about Laura, keeping her close as he tried to find his way back. She used gentle hands to stroke his hair, across the width of his dampened back, while softly speaking soft words of love to him. Only when she felt him grow heavy against her and his breathing turn deep in steady, did she allow herself to follow him into sleep.


	28. Chapter 28: Christmas Eve

Chapter 27: Christmas Eve

Laura and Remington woke the following morning with sunlight bathing their bedroom. A glance at the alarm clock showed it to be shortly before nine. Due at the Pipers by six for a casual dinner, after showering and dressing, Remington turned his attention to prepping food for the following day: bread sauce and cranberry sauce were made and placed in sealed containers; potatoes for the crispy roasted potatoes were pealed and left in the fridge to soak in bowls of cool water; apple and mincemeat pies were baked and left cooling on the counters; and lastly, Christmas pudding was made and stored, too, in the refrigerator. The meal Christmas evening would be a nod to the traditional meals served in both Remington and Laura's homelands: Roasted turkey with herbed apple stuffing, brown sugar and cracked pepper baked ham, crispy roasted potatoes and mashed potatoes, Brussel sprouts with maple syrup and toasted almonds, caramelized acorn squash, roasted parsnips, among others. Dinner would be served buffet style so their considerable guest list could dine at their leisure.

Laura watched her husband as he whistled a happy little tune while he prepared the food from where she was sitting at the dining room table, wrapping the last of the Christmas presents. She ticked off the names of those who would be in attendance for dinner the following evening: She and Remington, of course; Donald, Frances and the three children; Abigail; Veronica and Maxie; Monroe and Jocelyn, who would be staying over so the two couples could depart together for their early flight to France; Murphy, Sherry and the twins, who were in LA visiting Sherry's parents. Sixteen people total, including themselves. Another busy holiday for the Steeles. It was hard to believe that this time the year prior, she and Remington were being held hostage at the Agency, along with Mildred and three others. In fact, little about this Christmas resembled the last. Last year, they were only committed, no idea where their future lay, whereas this year they were married and looking forward to what the future held. The year prior, they'd spent a quiet Christmas night alone together in his apartment. He'd surprised her with a tree, she recalled, and tickets to Vail. There is where the only similarity between the two years lay: Last year, Monroe and Jocelyn had accompanied them to Vail, stayed with them in the house they now owned and this year, the foursome would journey together overseas.

As much as she was looking forward to their trip, she was equally thrilled Murphy would be in attendance the following evening. She still missed her old friend and, even more so, she'd never been given a truly adequate opportunity to thank him for his help when she was kidnapped.

Presents wrapped and dinner prepped, they'd gone upstairs together to get ready for the evening ahead. Now, as she climbed out of the Rabbit in front of her sister's house, she took a deep breath and attempted to center herself. Remington would surely meet her mother's exacting demands for proper Christmas Eve Service attire: Pleated dress pants with matching suit jacket, crisp white dress shirt, and deep red suspenders with matched tie and pocket square. She took some solace in knowing that the bracers were for her benefit… a tease, if you will, as he was well-aware she proved to be drawn to admire his long, lean frame all the more often when he wore them. The color of his suit, the red of his tie and pocket square were a point to be made as well, as his clothing selection perfectly complemented her own: his way of announcing to the world at large that she was spoken for.

Nervously, she swiped at non-existent lint on her cream colored, suit jacket. Remington rounded the car and looked her over from head-to-toe. _Stunning,_ was his only thought. Pleated cream dress pants, dark belt, a deep red silk blouse, and the tailored jacket that matched the pants, she was the picture of elegance in his eyes. She'd opted to French braid her hair, tying the end with a matching red ribbon and weaving holly berries through the plait. Red and silver earrings graced her ears, her heart locket hung at her neck. On her wrist, the watch he'd given her a few months before.

"You look lovely," he complimented, grasping her hands. She smiled up at him, but still heaved a sigh of resignation in recognition of the criticism that lay ahead. Slinging her purse strap over her shoulder, she reached into the backseat of the car and grabbed two bags of gifts, while he retrieved the remaining two. Securing both of his bags in one hand, he placed the other on the small of her back as they approached the house, stroking softly in an attempt to relax her.

Scant seconds after the doorbell was pressed, the door swung open and Donald stepped back, greeting them as they entered.

"Remington," he welcomed with a shake of hands and slap on upper arm. Leaning forward, Donald bussed Laura on the cheek. "You look positively festive. Everyone's already begun gathering in the dining room for dinner," he offered, holding his hand out towards the combined dining and kitchen area. Taking a cue from Donald's attire – dress pants, shirt and tie, no jacket – Remington shrugged out of his suit coat.

"We'll be straight along," he told his brother-in-law. With a nod, Donald continued on alone.

Opening the entryway closet door, he hung up his jacket before assisting Laura from hers and likewise hanging it. Turning back to her, he cupped her face in his hands.

"Relax," he urged. "You're here to celebrate the holiday with your family, not to be sent to the gallows." Her eyes flickered away from him.

"Clearly, you haven't spent Christmas Eve with my mother," she disagreed. Digging deep, she found her gumption. Standing up a bit straighter and pulling her shoulders back, a determined gleam lit her eyes. "But being late to the dinner table will only make it worse." He nodded his approval and touched his lips to hers before following her into the kitchen.

The Piper family, sans Donald, and Abigail all looked up from where they were seated at the dining table as the couple entered the dining room. Frances eyed down the children as the prepared to spring from their seats to greet their Aunt and Uncle. As expected of her, Laura moved around the table to press a kiss to Abigail's cheek.

"It's nice to see you again, Mother."

"Hello, Laura, dear. I'm glad you could join us. We've held dinner for you," Abigail informed her, returning the kiss on her cheek.

"Mother, it's only just six o'clock," Frances attempted to intercede.

"Frances, need I remind you, as well, that if one is invited to dinner that is to be served at six, it is customary to arrive earlier, so as not to hold the meal?" Abigail censored. Frances wilted under her gaze, then seemed to rally.

"I don't believe I expressly said dinner was at six, rather that they should arrive at six, which they did." Frances grinned, proud of her clarification. Abigail opened her mouth to speak again when Remington smoothly stepped in.

"Abigail, Frances, my apologies. The fault is entirely mine," he prevaricated, as he held out Laura's chair for her. "I was so caught up in cooking and baking for tomorrow evening that Laura all but had to drag me from the house."

"Remington, dear, there's no need to apologize," Abigail told him, reaching across Frances to pat his hand. "We can't thank you enough for volunteering to host Christmas dinner tomorrow evening. I know it must have been trying, between work and menu preparations."

"No, no. No trouble at all," he corrected. "Laura insisted we close the office for the holidays so we could concentrate on upcoming festivities. There's nothing more important to her than her family, and she wanted to assure the occasion was memorable." Discretely, Laura's hand reached for his under the table and gave it a squeeze of thanks. "Frances, I must say, you've outdone yourself again, it appears." Frances blushed prettily at the praise.

"Oh, it's nothing fancy. I thought we could keep things simple this evening as I'm sure you have an entire feast planned for tomorrow evening."

"I do at that," he agreed, giving her a wink that sent her a-tittering.

The meal was perhaps simplistic – lasagna and a salad with a light vinaigrette – but it was tasteful fare. While Frances did not possess the wide range of Remington's epicurean abilities, what she did cook, he'd found, she always cooked exceedingly well. After the meal, Laura and Remington volunteered for dish duty, but were shooed out of the kitchen by Abigail and Frances, so they joined the fray in the Piper living room instead. Retrieving the bags they'd brought from by the front door, he handed present-after-present to her to position under the tree. Bags emptied they settled on the couch, hips touching, his arm slug around her shoulders as they watched Danny and Mindy crawling around on all-fours around the tree.

"This one's for me," Mindy said gleefully, then pointed to another. "There's one for you Danny!"

"And another one for you here," he answered, doing some pointing of his own.

"What about me?" Laurie Beth piped up, from where she sat on the floor nearby.

"Right here," Mindy pointed again.

"And here!" Danny added. The youngest Piper clapped her hands in jubilation.

Donald watched on with amusement playing across his lips.

"Every year, it never changes," he said aloud. "I remember when I was a child we didn't have any of this opening presents on Christmas Eve bit. No, we were made to wait until Christmas morning," he glanced at his youngest, "until after Santa came, even it meant we never slept a wink! What about you Remington?"

"I assure you, there was no opening of presents on Christmas Eve," he answered, giving his ear a tug. Laura edged herself a bit closer to his side. Understanding the unspoken support, he bent his head and briefly pressed his cheek against the top of her head. "So, this tradition is new, is it?" he asked of Donald.

"New to me. No, this is Frannie's family tradition. It was important to her, so we carried it on after we married."

"The tradition of the ornaments as well?" Donald laughed.

"Of course! The tree is the story of our lives together. First Frannie and I, then Danny, later Mindy and Laurie Beth. Each year as we put up the tree, we add a new chapter. It's my favorite of the Holt traditions," he enthused. The thought gave Remington pause. He'd thought the tradition charming when Laura had first told him of it. But Donald's perspective gave the tradition a richness… a complexity… he hadn't before considered.

Frances peeked her head into the room.

"Everyone come help yourselves to a mug of hot chocolate or hot apple cider." The three children jumped to their feet and ran to the kitchen. Remington raised a brow towards his wife.

"Once the hot chocolate, cider and treats are served it's time to begin opening presents," she explained, pressing a kiss to his cheek and standing.

"Ah, I see."

In short order, the adults were seated on couches or chairs, the children on the floor nearby the tree. It was the responsibility of the two oldest children to distribute the presents to their recipients. Once all were handed out, opening began with zeal.

Laura watched Remington out of the corner of her eye. He seemed frozen in place, simply staring at the gifts sitting upon his lap: A gift from Abigail, a second from Donald and Frances and the last from the Piper children.

"Ponies. I got My Little Ponies, Mommy," Laurie Beth shrieked. Using the cloak of the child's excitement, Laura leaned close to whisper to him.

"You're family, Remington. Enjoy it." She bussed him on the cheek, then returned her attentions to the happy chaos surrounding them.

"Oh my," Frances burst out. "Donald, would you look at this?" As bade, he leaned over and looked at what his wife was holding.

"Plane tickets to Vail? Lift tickets?" Donald turned to look at the Steeles. "This is far too generous. We couldn't possibly—"

"Sure you can," Laura interrupted.

"We'll never find a babysitter at this late date," Frances interjected, even while gazing longingly at the tickets.

"Abigail has generously volunteered to extend her stay to keep the children," Remington told her, putting that concern to bed.

"We'll never find a hotel with availability at this late—" Donald began.

"You'll be staying at our house. There are four master suites upstairs, with a hot tub on the balconies of each. The choice of rooms is yours," Laura said, setting down their last possible objection. The couple glanced at one another, a wide smile gracing each of their faces at the same time. Frances leaped up from her seat and crossed the room to throw her arms around her sister.

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome." Leaning closer she spoke quietly next to Frances's ear. "You might want to open the gift from me discretely. Something to wear for a second honeymoon."

Frances leaned back, eyes shining. The look shared between the two sisters expressed how much stronger their relationship had become in the last year. Rejoining her husband on the other couch, Frances clasped his hand tightly in hers, beaming.

"Holy Pete, six new models to work on! I know what I'm doing this Christmas break," Danny called out. "Thanks Aunt Laura and Uncle Remington!"

"Our pleasure," Remington answered with a smile.

"Laura, Remington. A ticket to Galway, Ireland for next Monday?" Abigail asked, more than a little baffled.

"Given how much you enjoyed your time spent along the Riviera, we thought you might enjoy spending a bit of time Ashford Castle," Remington explained. "You'll also find we've secured train and boat fare for you, and a flight returning home from London. You'll have three days at Ashford, then three days in London. We've a townhouse there that will be opened up for your stay."

"I don't even know what to say." The eyes of Frances, Donald and Laura all settled upon Abigail, trying to recall when the last time was she as rendered speechless. "Thank you," she finally managed. The three pairs of eyes staring all blinked simultaneously. It was the first time in recent history they could recall Abigail graciously accepting a gift while finding no fault in it at all. All three of them considered it on the level of a Christmas miracle.

Remington received three Raymond Chandler hardback novels from Frances and Donald along with a pair of tickets to an upcoming Cary Grant retrospective, and another three Agatha Christie novels from the children.

"Laura once said how much you enjoy both authors," Frances had explained.

And from Abigail, a silk tie with matching handkerchief.

"I know precisely the suit to wear them with," Remington had thanked her, standing and crossing the room to buss her on the cheek, receiving a pat on his own cheek in exchange.

For Laura? A cashmere sweater from Donald and Frances, a selection of novels by Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins from the children. And, from Abigail, three sets of cookbooks and an apron. She tried her best not to roll her eyes at the last.

"Thank you, Mother," she managed, stiffly.

"Maybe with Remington's help you'll learn to enjoy cooking enough that you can take the burden of preparing all the meals off his shoulders," Abigail suggested. Remington reached for her hand and gave it a small squeeze, a gesture she accurately interpreted as him letting her know he neither found her lack of cooking skills a deficit nor something that needed mending.

After all gifts were unwrapped and the trash disposed of, Remington stretched out on the carpet to play 'ponies' with Laurie Beth at her insistence, while simultaneously giving Mindy pointers on how to use shadowing to enhance her drawings. Frances moved to join Laura on the couch where she was sitting so they could turn their full attention to Donald, as he read _The Night Before Christmas_ aloud for the entire family. On more than one occasion, Laura had the feeling someone was watching her, and with a shift of her eyes found Remington's eyes resting longingly on her stomach. Unconsciously, her hand settled there and stroked softly. Closing her eyes, she realized beginning a family was rapidly moving in her mind from one day to… soon.

Before long, the family began preparing to leave for Midnight Mass. The children were sent upstairs to change into their church clothes, while Remington helped Donald take several blankets and pillows out to the Piper station wagon. The Pipers had learned from years past that they would have three sleepy children by the time Mass let out. In the meantime, Laura retrieved her and Remington's jackets from the entryway closet. Laying his across the back of a wingback chair, she shrugged hers on, then swept away non-existent wrinkles with a hand.

"Laura, I'm sure Frances wouldn't mind if you used her room to change," Abigail suggested. Laura's back stiffened. Even though she had predicted exactly this conversation before leaving the house, tension still knotted her stomach at the implied criticism.

"There's no need. This is what I'm wearing to church, Mother." Abigail settled a disapproving gaze on her youngest child.

"You're well-aware we always dress for Church…" she sniffed and Laura sighed.

"This is a dress suit, not jeans and a t-shirt," Laura pointed out, somewhat huffily. Remington appeared in the living room for the last two lines of the conversation.

"And you look absolutely stunning, love," he informed her stepping to her side and bussing her cheek. "I know you'd have preferred to wear something a bit more fancy, but with your healing ankle requiring support and all…" he left the thought unfinished. Abigail's eyes shifted downwards, only then recalling her daughter's recent surgery.

"Well, why didn't you just say as much, Laura. It would be impossible to find the proper shoe to accompany a dress when you're still wearing that bulky thing. Concealing it with slacks is certainly the best that can be done." Laura swallowed the groan that threatened to cross her lips. Remington's had squeezed her waist before releasing her and slipping on his jacket.

"We'll see you and the family at the Church, Abigail." Leaning over, he bussed his mother-in-law on the cheek. After he and Laura gathered up their gifts and empty bags, they departed for the car.

Outside, Remington gathered Laura close. Squeezing shut her eyes, she relaxed into his embrace.

"All-in-all a pleasant evening, eh?" She leaned back and looked up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"All-in-all," she agreed, tilting her head back slightly more in a hint, her eyes holding his. Never one to decline when the woman before him was requesting a kiss, he lowered his head. The kiss was the quiet kiss of two people connecting, appreciating one another's presence, yet left her blinking and looking a little dazed when it ended. She vaguely wondered how it is she'd been kissing this man for going on five years now and she still felt the same frisson of excitement course through her each time their lips met.

"We should leave for the Church," she managed, reaching up to swipe her lipstick off his lips with a thumb. Drawing her to him in a final embrace, he bussed her on the forehead and patted her fanny before releasing her.

The services that evening were as familiar as they were comforting, like an old friend found amidst chaos. Remington still marveled at the idea Laura, like himself, had been raised within the Church, a fact that only solidified further his belief kismet had meant for he and she to find each other amongst the billions on the earth. It was their similar life experiences that had both drawn them together and kept them apart for four years, and had over time created a steel-like bond that he couldn't imagine a single person or situation ever being able to sever. Oh, his fears that he didn't deserve this type of happiness, of love… that he'd done nothing in this life to earn it… still persisted, but with each passing day he grew more certain that, unlike days past, it would take more than a single event or person to tear them asunder. It was a potent feeling, one that had him reaching for his wife's hand and weaving their fingers together.

Laura's own thoughts traveled a similar path. A year ago this time, they'd been committed to one another, working toward communicating more honestly with one another, and their relationship had an intimate undertone that was both inspiring and terrifying at once. The months he'd been gone the summer prior had changed the landscape of their relationship, had forced both of them to admit, a least to themselves, that somewhere along the line the connection between them had become so complex, their lives so interwoven, that life without the other's presence not only made no sense, but also left a yawning chasm of emptiness where the other once had dwelled within. When he'd returned home, the pretense that either was whole without the other had ended. That small piece of honesty had brought with it a contentment they'd not known in their relationship before, but in itself was not enough to quell either of their fears… or to inspire either of them to take the risk and admit the entirety of their feelings for the other first. No, as was once typical of them, they'd had to stand at the cliffside of their relationship, peering over into the dark canyon below, knowing the next step would sever everything between them once and for all – partnership, friendship, romance. It was only then that they'd taken a step back, turned and faced one another with stark honesty.

And this had been their reward. Leaning her head against his shoulder, her other hand covered their joined two, her thumb seeking his ring, stroking it. Marriage. A home. Christmas Eve traditions. Peace. Oh, she still had her days when she worried he'd grow bored with it all: domesticity, living on the right side of the law… well, with the occasional steps into the shadows on the dark side of the street where once he'd lived… of her. There were mornings where he arrived far later than normal at the office, or at home in the evenings, which left her fearing she'd seen the last of him, he'd finally packed up and moved on. But those days were rare anymore. All it would take was her eyes connecting with his to see that his passion for her… his love… had not waned, but instead had only seemed to grow with each passing day.

Remington withdrew his arm when Laurie Beth slipped off Frances's lap and scooted past siblings and Laura to get to him. Hiking her up into his lap when she patted his leg in request, he wrapped an arm about the little girl, while she curled up against him and sticking two fingers in her mouth, closed her eyes, then embraced Laura about the shoulders with his other arm. She leaned more heavily against his side this time, drawing his attention.

"Sleepy?" he asked in a low voice.

"Someone was very frisky last night," she reminded him, trying to blink the bleariness from her eyes.

"A certain young woman has but herself to blame for that," he teased lightly, bussing her against her temple. Giving him a wan smile, she turned her attention back to the service.

Then was mortified when a brisk rub of her arm woke her for Communion. She cast a panicked look in her mother's direction suddenly feeling like a ten-year-old who had misbehaved in church. The same hand that woke her guided her down the aisle.

"No one knew but myself, so stop looking as though you stole treats from a nun," Remington laughed softly beside her, while he effortlessly carried their sleeping six-year-old niece.

Less than ten minutes later, service ended and the family adjourned to their vehicles, Remington handing Laurie Beth off to Frances. Joining Laura at the Rabbit, he plucked the keys from her hand then held open the passenger door to her. With a shrug, she got in the car and he closed the door behind her. As he climbed in behind the steering wheel, she hoped the cool night air would help revive her before they arrived home, otherwise her carefully made plans would go to waste.

When they arrived home, Remington closed the gates at the end of the drive with a flick of a button on the remote, then parked the Rabbit in the carport. While the drive had been made mostly in silence, she credited the fact she was still awake to the win column. They parted at the steps upon entering the house.

"I'll be up shortly. I need to stuff the turkey and set it to slow roast," he told her with a brush of his lips to her cheek.

"How long?" He pursed his lips and did a quick mental calculation.

"No more than thirty minutes, I should think." She nodded then climbed the stairs towards their room.

Only once she was out of his sight, did the adrenaline kick in. _Shower, hair dried, dressed, sneak downstairs to put his presents under the tree. Do I have time?_ she wondered.

For six and a half months she'd managed to secret the last of the surprises she'd purchased for his pleasure at Chantal's shop in Cannes. The moment she'd seen this particular ensemble, she knew it was meant for one night and one night alone. Crossing the room to her dresser, she extracted one of her old nightgowns – a shapeless, ankle length, cotton gown that he'd once harrumphed reminded him of the nightgowns married women wore in old westerns set in the nineteenth century. It would never have occurred to him, given his derision for the gown, that it could become the idea hiding place for something. She reached between the gowns fabric folds and pulled out the garment hidden within.

She sighed, seeing again its exquisite perfection. Remington might not have a single memory of Santa Claus visiting him as a child, but the memory of the night Mrs. Claus had wished him a Merry Christmas she was quite certain would not be forgotten for a long, long time. The gusseted corset featured a daring, sheer white panel of lace in the front which would conceal not a centimeter of the flesh of her breasts, narrowing in width along ribs and stomach. The lace adjoined red satin pulled tantalizingly tight by the white, satin ribbons lacing up the back. Gathered white satin trimmed the sweetheart neckline, which dipped daringly low. Red, satin panties trimmed in white. While, gathered satin, like that which trimmed the bodice, made up the belt of the garters, with white bows topping the straps holding up the white, lace like stockings. The outfit was topped by a sheer white, lace robe, held closed by a wide red satin sash, tied into a bow in the front.

Shower complete, towel wrapped around herself, and blow dryer in hand, Laura scrunched her hair as she dried it. Six months after the train wreck of a hair cut she'd allowed herself to be talked into post tuna-boat-marriage, her hair had gained six inches in length and the dreaded bangs were finally blending into the rest of her hair. The man downstairs was eternally fascinated by the curl of her hair when not tamed by a forceful brush combined with heat. Tonight, those spirals would be left free for his fingers to explore. A light brush of color across her eyelids, a dash of mascara, and a swipe of lip gloss, she made no attempt to conceal the sprinkles of color that covered her face over which his blue eyes would travel, transfixed. At last, dropping the towel, she fitted herself into the lingerie, a bit of challenge given it was up to her own devices to pull the ribbons tight then tie them, but she rose to the occasion.

Preparations complete, she studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Confident the ensemble would draw exactly the response she was hoping for, she gave herself a confident nod and a smile. To conceal the outfit in case she ran into Remington before it was time, she pulled on one of his robes which covered her from shoulders to toes. Into its pocket she shoved her hat: red satin trimmed in faux white fur. A quick brush of her teeth and she was ready to gather his gifts and place them under the tree.

She fished the four packages out of her bottom nightstand drawer. She stood to leave the room, then paused. For the past three weeks she'd been considering a fifth and final present, perhaps her biggest present to him of all. She searched her heart, then with a nod of her head, lay the bundle of presents in her hands down on the bed. Opening the top drawer of her night stand she took out notepad and pen, scribbling out a note. Three minutes later, gift and note were secured in a box, wrapped and bowed. On quiet feet, she left their bedroom and made her way back downstairs.

Now, it was all a matter of timing. Shedding his robe and hanging it off the balustrade, she waited. She saw the room ahead of her dim when Remington turned the kitchen light off. Heard the rattle of the door knob as he made certain the French doors off the dining room were secured for the night. Only when the living room turned dark by his hand with a flick of the light switch, did she turn around and bend down as though placing a present under the tree.

Remington rubbed a hand at the stubble on his face as he turned the corner out of the living room into the foyer, coming to a complete stop with a swift intake of breath. There, standing before him in the celestial cast of light from the Christmas tree, was a truly remarkable sight: His petite wife, bent over, placing a gift under the tree, the only parts of her visible, those knockout legs encased in sheer white lace, and a pert little bottom covered in red satin, peeking out from under a short, lace robe. He leaned a shoulder against the doorway, trying to appear casual when he felt anything but.

"I must have been a very good boy for Santa to leave me the one thing I wanted most under that tree," he drawled. Laura grinned a self-satisfied smile before wiping the smile from her face and turning to level an innocent look upon him.

"And what present might that be?" she asked, toying with the bow tied at her waist. It took Herculean effort on her part not to laugh aloud as he leveled a white hot, hungry look upon her, his tongue flicking unconsciously at his lips. His lips traveled her length from head-to-toe.

"A Christmas angel, it would seem." She shook head slowly and took a step forward.

"Maybe not as good as you thought," she said, putting on a show of looking around. "I don't see any angels around here." As thought to prove it, she stepped forward again, and pressing her body to his, raked her fingers through his hair, before drawing his head down. The kiss she bestowed upon him was anything but angelic. She nibbled playfully on his lower lip, before slipping her tongue past to his explore his mouth thoroughly, teasing his tongue with light strokes of hers. His hands sought the bare flesh above stockings, stroked the curve of her bottom. Her fingers traced the outline of his face, before feathering down his neck and stroking the sensitive skin under his ears, drawing a groan from him and leaving him breathing hard when she withdrew.

"No, no angel," he agreed breathily. She stepped back from him, toying with the bow at her waist again.

"A hint, maybe?" His brows raised in understanding.

"I should unwrap you, so to speak?" She tilted her head and batted her eyes at him, exaggeratedly.

"Well, I am a present after all…" Rising to the challenge, he took a step forward, then reaching for an end of the bow, gave it a tug. The sash fell open. With a single finger, he parted the robe, peeking beneath. He swallowed hard at what he found. His blood roared and rushed south.

"Mrs. Claus, I presume?" She wagged her brows at him. Shrugging her shoulders, she let the robe fall to the floor. "Good God," he breathed. "Laura, that cheeky little number could take a man to his knees." Stepping into him again, she lay her hand on his chest, stroking firmly downwards to his belt.

"Mmmm. That wouldn't be a _bad_ place to start," she purred. She pressed against him again, pushing up on tippy-toes so her lips could trail hot kisses along his jaw, before her mouth found the spot under his ear and laved while her fingers massaged his scalp. She blew against the dampness while drawing her fingers down his back. He arched into her and pressed his face into her neck. "Tell me, _big guy_ , have you ever tripped the light fantastic under the lights of a Christmas Tree before?"

"Can't say that I have…" his hands glided from bottom, to waist, then up her back, suppressing a combined moan of pleasure and frustration as his sensitive fingers found the laces of the corset, "…Mrs. Claus." A tug on his hand had him following her to his knees before the tree.

"Maybe it's time for a new tradition to begin then…" she suggested, her amber eyes smoldering as she gazed at him. Removing the hat from her head, she placed it on his, "…Mr. Claus." His hands grasped her waist and urged her to turn her back to him. His lips blazed a trail of heat across her collarbone, and sent goosebumps skittering across her skin. Lifting her hand, she threaded her fingers throughout his hair, the fingers of her other hand tangling with his hand that held her across the abdomen. "Rem?"

"Yes, love?" he murmured.

"Nollaig Shona, mo ghrá." His lips stilled and his she felt the tremor that passed through his body in response to her words, even as his arm tightened about her.

"Ah, Laura, the things you say," he mumbled gruffly. His hands urged her to turn again, before one lifted her chin so their eyes could meet. "Nollaig Shona, mo ghrá. Tá tú an anáil an-an saol a mo chroí." His lips covered hers, and he kissed her in that achingly gentle way of his that made every nerve ending in her body hum with joy and desire. Arms tightening around her, lips never leaving hers, he sank back, taking her with him.

The heat they generated between them warded of any cold they may have felt from the bare floors beneath them. And when they, finally, found the stars together, it was under the soft lights of the Christmas tree. Another Steele Christmas tradition had begun.

(TBC)


	29. Chapter 29: Christmas Day

_**A/N: Well, it might not be Friday, but the final chapters are still being posted before Christmas Day, if only by minutes. I hope you enjoy the final chapters of Steele Thankful.**_

 _ **Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah to each of you. It is my sincere hope you finding blessings in the New Year to come.**_

* * *

Chapter 29: Christmas Day

Laura eyes blinked open mid Christmas morning when the feeling of being watched pried her from her dreams. Remington was crouched by the side of the bed, still wearing his pajama bottoms, his paisley silk robe belted loosely about him. His lips lifted in a smile as her glazed eyes tried to find their bearings and he reached up to toy with the curls still flowing free and untamed.

"Happy Christmas, love," he greeted quietly. The hand her cheek had been resting upon moved to rest on his cheek instead.

"Merry Christmas, Rem," she returned just as quietly, while adjusting slightly. "I didn't feel you leave. How long have you been up?"

"A bit." He raised his brows at her. "It wouldn't do at all for you to catch Santa upon his rounds, you know." In truth, he'd not only risen early to place her gifts under the tree, but also to baste the turkey and prepare them breakfast. Grinning, she pushed herself up to a sitting position while she nibbled at her lower lip.

"I'd think Santa would have been very tired after his late night activities."

"There you'd be wrong." He stood up the leaned down to kiss her. "Invigorated. Positively invigorated by the mere memory." He bent down and lifted the tray from the floor, placing it over her lap before rounding the bed and sliding back in next to her.

"Raspberry crepes with chocolate sauce?" Her mouth watered instantly.

"Godiva dark chocolate," he corrected.

"You spoil me, Mr. Steele." She lifted her fork and cut off a bite, closing her eyes and humming with pleasure as the taste filled her mouth.

"I haven't even yet begun today, Mrs. Steele." He wagged his brows at her. "Think I can convince you to share?" he asked, eyeing the food. She pretended to ponder the idea then sighed dramatically.

"Since it _is_ Christmas." She fed him a bite as his eyes twinkled merrily at her.

"Any other day I'd be reduced to starving then, eh?" She gave him a look that suggested he'd gone daft.

"Through no fault of your own. It's _chocolate._ " He chuckled quietly.

"Isn't marriage based on the premise of sharing the wealth?"

"The exclusionary clause where chocolate is concerned is implied," she rejoined.

"It's disillusioning to realize a snack holds a larger piece of your heart that I myself do."

"Mmmm," she hummed, feeding him another piece of crepe, "But think of how you benefit when you feed it to me."

"There is that," he grinned, leaning in for a sweet kiss, before rolling back out of bed.

"Where are you going?" she asked, the surprise clear in her voice.

"I believe the Holt tradition requires hot chocolate to be served before presents are opened," he grinned at her on the way to the door.

"The _Steele_ tradition I think should require tea, don't you?" she posed.

"Tea it is, then. I'll see you downstairs when you're ready."

Taking a final bite of crepe and setting the tray to the side, Laura flopped back against the pillows behind her with a smile on her face. Just for the heck of it, she gave her forearm a brief pinch. _No, still reality, not a dream_. Her smile grew all the wider. Her favorite day of the year was officially here and downstairs, Remington Steele, the man not the myth, the partner, friend, lover… husband… awaited her. In the home they bought together. By the tree they'd decorated together, had made love beside the night before. It all seemed surreal.

Had someone asked last Christmas what she'd hoped the next would bring, never in a million years would have it occurred to her to ask for this. It was far more than she'd ever have been able to conjure up. Dream about… some day… down the line… maybe. But only a single, short year later? Never.

With a soft laugh, she sprang from the bed and grabbed her robe from the end of it. It was, after all, Christmas morning and no one should waste the occasion in bed. Well, unless a certain handsome Irishman were in that bed as well. Leaving their room, she made her way downstairs.

In the kitchen, Remington was having similar thoughts as his wife. Oh, if asked and he'd dared for an instant to believe there was a snowball's chance in hell of such a wish coming true, he would have asked for exactly this. Laura, his and his alone. Them, sharing a bed, their passions well matched, both seemingly insatiable. They, sharing a single home, falling asleep each night wrapped around one another in one manner or other.

No, Christmas wishes such as those were for other people. Not he. It had always been that way, even as a child. It would always be that way. Dream of it though he might, a wish would have only been wasted on the likes of him.

And married? Happily and contentedly wed? As soon as the thought would cross his mine it had always been relegated to the spot of the impossible dream. He was the man with no name. A conman. A thief. A womanizer. That he was reformed would mean nothing, because living an honest life or no, having remained true to one woman for four years or no, the first is all that mattered at day's end. He had no name, no truth, no legitimacy to offer her. And she, above anyone he'd ever known, deserved it all.

Yet, here he stood in their kitchen, in their home, awaiting his wife to come downstairs so that they might share Christmas morning together?

He couldn't help but laugh for the sheer bliss of it all.

 _And speaking of wives, her comes mine now_ , he thought to himself with a smile when he heard her footfalls upon the stairs. Picking up their cups of tea, he wandered out to meet her.

"Ah, me lovely Laura. Ready then for this day to commence, are ye?" Laura's feet stuttered to a stop on the bottom step as her smile grew even wider, as if that were possible, when she heard the chords of his Irish accent whisper through his words. He knew immediately that he'd slipped once more, then carelessly shrugged off the thought. That cat had been let out of the bag long ago, in those first days at Ashford Castle. When most happy, most content, his childhood language rang through his words. As far as he was concerned these days, it was just one more thing that he and Laura, alone, shared.

"I am," she answered, recovering quickly and taking the offered tea from his hand. Sitting down next to the tree and curling her legs off to the side, she waited until he stretched out on his side, propped on an elbow, facing her. Only then did she reach for her first, and by size at least, largest present for the man sitting across from her. And, with his normal enthusiasm, he gave no regard to the beautiful wrapping paper, shredding it as he kept his eyes on her, chuckling all the while.

"Expanding my selection, I see." He fingered through the collection of video tapes: _A Clockwork Orange, Gilda, An American in Paris, My Fair Lady, To Have and Have Not,_ and _Casino Royale_. "Each of them excellent selections. Thank you, love." He slid a large box out from under the tree and handed it to her. "For you."

Laura's eyes glimmered with excitement as she carefully peeled back piece of tape by piece of tape. In what seemed to him hours later, but was in fact less than a minute, she set aside the paper and shook open the box. The blush colored, Parisian street style coat was made of wool and hand constructed by Remington's tailor. Form fitting at the top, it nipped in tight at the waist then widened into a flowing, tea length style bottom. It reminded him of the grace and elegance of Audrey Hepburn, both of which Laura was the epitome of.

"It's gorgeous, Remington," she breathed, lifting it from the box, then suddenly dropping it all but squealed with excitement when she realized the entire bottom of the dress box was lined with more than a half dozen red boxes with gold foil writing. Loft's Parlays. She would know them anywhere even if the name hadn't been emblazoned upon the boxes. "Parlays. You remembered," she looked up at him with soft eyes. "And went entirely overboard."

"That would depend on your perspective. If it means many nights of…" he wagged his brows "… sharing them, then I didn't buy near enough." He grinned as she blushed prettily when she recalled exactly how they shared the candies the prior Christmas: She eating them, and he sampling the taste on her mouth after each bite.

"Well, if that's your criteria, I suppose you did," she conceded. Turning she hung the coat over the armrest of a nearby chair before selecting two small presents from under the tree for him. Both were opened exuberantly in short order. He peered at her up through his lashes as he opened each of the hinged boxes. He was held speechless for long moments.

"I don't know what to say…" he finally managed. The cufflinks and tie collar bars were the first monogrammed _anything_ he'd ever owned. When, with Laura's blessing and encouragement, he'd quite permanently taken the name of Remington Steele as his own it had seemed… presumptuous, perhaps?... to have the initials emblazoned upon anything, even though he'd wanted to stamp the proof he had, at last, a name of his very own, on _everything._ That Laura had seen fit to do it for him?

Somehow, she'd known this would be his reaction and that he'd find himself set off balance, then embarrassed by his reaction to them. Yet, to see the look of awe? She suspected he'd find himself the recipient of many such gifts in the future.

"Well, we both know your fascination with shiny objects," she said, intentionally lightening the moment for him.

"They are that and more," he smiled. "And I know precisely the occasion on which I'll first wear them," he hinted, while handing her two small boxes of her own. She gasped when she at last opened the boxes to reveal the necklace and earrings.

"Remington, you shouldn't have," she breathed, her eyes darting to his face.

"I can't think of a more fitting use for the baubles I have setting about," he contradicted.

"They're… stunning," she complimented, touching the necklace with the tips of the fingers of one hand. Remembering her engagement ring – also diamonds and ruby set in platinum, her eyes darted back to his face. "Did you design these as well?" Before the question had even fully left her mouth, she knew the answer. Of course he had. The pendant and drop earrings were designed in an understated way so that they could be worn every day if she wished. Only they would know the fortune that hung around her neck and from her ears.

"I did." Those two words were the only words spoken on the matter. She could only shake her head, then pushed herself up on all fours to lean forward and kiss him.

"Thank you." Two words that in their tone expressed a dozen sentiments. Their eyes held.

"Believe me, it was my pleasure." She pressed her palm against his cheek then leaned forward to kiss him again, lingering a bit this time, before she sat back down next to the tree again. She mentally took two deep breaths, centering herself before she handed his next gift to him, already anticipating the argument that lay ahead. She practically shoved the package at him, she'd become so anxious.

Remington gave her an odd look. The long, thin box didn't weigh much, yet she seemed uncharacteristically nervous. Normally, she reveled in giving gifts. Removing the paper, he lifted the lid off the box and peered inside. His eyes flicked to her face before lifting the sheaf of papers contained within. He slowly rose to a seated position as he read the first paragraph. Shortly thereafter he began shaking his head.

"Laura, I can't accept this." She held a level gaze on him.

"Yes, you can," she disagreed.

"I can't. This is akin to you signing away the rights to your child," he countered, his voice firm.

"Or the same as sharing equally in rights to and responsibility for _our_ child when he or she is born," she argued back. "Remington, someone told me not long ago that one of us has one foot in this marriage and one foot out the door. Do you remember that?" Something that felt suspiciously like guilt assailed him and was greeted with a tug of his ear.

"Yes, but I didn't mean—"

"Whose money bought this house?" He set his mouth stubbornly.

"Ours." She shook her head.

"Only 'ours' because you made it so. It was _your_ money. I did nothing to earn it," she pointed out logically, holding up her hands. "Putting your accounts _jointly_ into our names was your way of showing your commitment to this marriage, to the life we're building _together._ Don't deny me the right to do the same." He looked down at the papers in his hand again.

"Laura," he tried one more time, with only that one, simple word.

"Remington, I may have started the Agency, but it has been through _both_ our efforts that it is now known not only in LA, but nationally, even internationally. Without you, would the Agency have been successful? I think so. But I also won't pretend that it would have ever obtained the level of success it has if not for you at first giving it a face, then over the last four years working side-by-side with me. It is _our partnership_ , more so than anything else, that has made it what it now is." The lack of twitching in his jaw told her he was softening. "Don't refuse me the right to do for us what you did. Don't make me keep my other foot out the door. I don't want that." Sensing she'd won, she reached into the box before him and removed the pen, holding it up to him. Their eyes connected and held. "All in." It was a long time before he nodded his agreement, and turned the pages of the contract signing his name once, then again.

"All in," he agreed, setting the pen down on top of the contract and placing both back in the box. "My God, Laura. I don't even know what to say." Silence lolled for a short time, then he reached to cup her face in his hands. "Come here, love." With a smile, she leaned forward into the embrace, and he drew her head up, locking is lips over hers and holding them there for long moments, before giving her several small kisses and releasing her. She blinked hard then smiled again.

"That seemed to say it all." He chuckled and bussed her on the forehead before releasing her. Reclining back on an elbow again, he reached for the one of the two remaining packages and handed it to her. Removing the paper she lifted her brows in curiosity at the cardboard tube with caps on each end. Prying open a cap, she fished out a single sheet of paper from the interior. She read it, then read it again and when she looked at him, the smile on her face was so bright, he was certain it rivaled all the lights on the tree combined.

"How? When? How did I not know about this?"

"Meyerson called last week. Seems a few higher ups were so personally affronted by the recent acts of an operative temporarily assigned to them that they decided a good will gesture was in order. I took the oath officially Wednesday last." She gave him a knowing look.

"When you were at the afternoon matinee," she nodded as she said it. He wagged his brows at her.

"So, no more interviews?"

"Not a one."

"Not more visits?"

"We shall lock them off the grounds."

"No more threats of deportation?"

"Only if I wish to deport myself." In a very un-Laura-like move, which he'd seen only twice before – the first time when she found him running along a roadway, not dead by DesCoines hand and the second when he slid from a coal shoot, not killed during the fire at her loft's building – she flung herself bodily at him, knocking him flat on his back, as her arms wrapped around him and she kissed him soundly, lengthily. His arms wrapped around her and he chuckled low in his throat, beyond pleased with her reaction. When she ended the kiss and tilted her head back, he smoothed her hair back over her shoulders and graced her with a toothy smile.

"I take it you're pleased?" he teased. Her fingers brushed back that unruly lock of hair from his forehead, her brown eyes dancing with mischief and joy.

"I guess that depends on your answer to my next question." He lifted a brow to her.

"Which would be?" She leaned down and kissed him again, unable to resist the impulse, then pressed her hands to the floor and leveled herself up to look down at him.

"Do you want a divorce, Mr. Steele?" she asked, secure in the answer she'd receive.

"You'll not get away from me so easily, Mrs. Steele," he smirked.

"Oh, is that right?" She raked her fingers through his hair on either side of his head, while looking at him with amusement.

"It could take _years_ to divide up assets, acquire the Church's approval on an annulment. Not to mention we'd both be held answerable to any number of people, starting with Mildred, Abigail and Elena." He clicked his tongue at her. "No, we've made quite a tangle of things, I'm afraid."

"I see. And here I thought it had less to do with the complications involved and more to do with the fact you love me," she comment drily. He shrugged a shoulder carelessly.

"Well, there is that."

"Good answer," she told him approvingly, then vaulted off his body and returned to sit by the tree again. He rolled to prop up on his elbow once more, watching her with raised brows. Reaching under the tree she handed him the fifth and final present. Unwrapping the gift, then lifting the lid off the box, he removed a slip of paper then frowned in bewilderment at her. He unfolded the note and read it.

" _I'm ready to stop trying not to whenever you are. ~L"_

He was fairly sure his heart was pounding so hard that she could hear it as well as see it from where she sat. His eyes met hers.

"Laura, are you certain?" She kept her gaze steady with his.

"Have you ever known me to do anything I didn't want to?" she countered.

"You have no doubts?" he persisted.

"Oh, a few hundred," she answered airily.

"And if I were to say I've changed my mind, I'm not quite prepared for this yet?" He asked, removing her birth control pills from the box and holding them aloft between two fingers.

"I'd say let me know when you are," she shrugged.

"And if I were to say I was ready to stop trying not to right now, here, today?" he persisted. His eyes regarded her intently, searching for honesty, duplicity.

"I'd say dispose of them however you wish," she answered with another shrug. He stood and offered her his hand. Giving him a puzzled look, she allowed him to pull her up from the floor, and with her hand clasped in his, followed him to the kitchen.

Remington stopped next to the kitchen sink and opened the packet, popping one pill at a time out of the blister pack and watching as they pinged against the sink then rolled towards the drain. He leveled his eyes on Laura again.

"Are you certain?" With a grin, she turned on the faucet, then the garbage disposal for good measure. They watched together as each of the pills disappeared. At last, he turned off the garbage disposal and cut off the water, then gathered her to him tucking her head beneath is chin. "This may bloody well be the most wonderful and terrifying gift I'll ever receive," he managed to say aloud.

"Any doubts?" she asked, tipping her head back and resting her chin on his chest so she could see him.

"Only several hundred," he answered, mirroring her response only a few minutes past.

"That pack was only symbolic, you know. I still have the pack I've been using upstairs. Do you want to change your mind?" He shook his head slowly.

"Not at all." He cupped her head in his hands. "Whatever happens, happens, eh?" She nodded and smiled.

"Whatever happens, happens," she confirmed, though not as a question. Pressing her lips against his neck, she settled in against him until he was ready to release her.


	30. Chapter 30: Christmas Night

Chapter 30: Christmas Night

Remington retired to shower and dress for the day, once he'd found his footing , while Laura had remained downstairs to clean up discarded wrapping paper and enjoy a cup of coffee. Eventually she took her turn in the shower while Remington focused his attention on meal preparation. Working in tandem, by the time five o'clock arrived, the terrace tables were arranged, complete with high chairs for the twins, the buffet tables had been set up, complete with warmers, flames were dancing in fireplaces inside and out and holiday music played. The couple adjourned together to change clothes before their guests arrived.

Despite the boot, Laura had decided to wear a white, cashmere sweater dress accompanied by a wide, red leather belt that emphasized her small waist. Using brush and blow dryer on her hair, she pulled the front back and allowed the straightened length to flow down over her shoulders in back. She topped it off with the Santa hat she'd worn the night before, intent on turning the tables on her husband for a change. She knew each time he looked at her, he'd recall the outfit that had accompanied it the evening prior and the heady session of lovemaking that had taken place as a result. She looked forward to an evening of watching him squirm, a little payback for Thanksgiving.

Remington, on his part, had decided to dress more casually that he normally might, donning a pair of well-fitted jeans and a white crew neck, cable knit sweater, with a deep red dress shirt underneath. His purposed was two fold. Firstly, his attire and Laura's would complement, as he preferred. And secondly, he'd identified Laura's game the instant she'd donned the Santa hat and had already begun his counter campaign. Although every other woman he'd known, without exception, found him most appealing when clad in a tux, his lovely wife was prone to following him with lust in her eyes when he wore a pair of jeans and either sweater or t-shirt. And given the games afoot on the evening, he had no qualms exploiting this particular weakness of hers. He nearly hummed in anticipation. There was little he enjoyed more than watching Laura flush and squirm while trying to pretend indifference.

Remington took the heart necklace she was preparing to clasp around her neck from her hand, and fastened it for her, then wrapped both arms around her, peering at their image in the mirror.

"I was correct, all those years back," he assessed. Laura looked at his eyes in their reflection.

"About?"

"We do make the perfect couple," he provided.

She assessed their image in the mirror and couldn't deny they made an attractive couple, but she'd never been able to deny that. In her eyes, however, it was what they were to one another, who they were to one another, that made them truly shine as a couple. She lifted her hand and laid fingertips against his jaw.

"We do," she agreed, then turned to press a kiss against his cheek, wiping off her lipstick with her thumb afterwards. "Are you ready to play the perfect hosts once more?"

"Remington Steele is nothing if not the perfect host, answering each guest's needs before they are aware of their very existence," he intoned.

With a laugh and a roll of her eyes, she turned and left the bathroom, wanting to make a final spot check on the room Monroe and Jocelyn would be occupying that evening. She'd already arranged for Maria to come by the following day, change the sheets on all the beds, and handle any after-party clean up, as well as to do a light dusting before their return from France. Finding the room in order, she made her way downstairs. She was determined to keep near the door this evening in order to avoid another lecture from her Mother on promptly greeting guests.

Within the hour, all the guests had arrived and Monroe and Jocelyn's luggage was ensconced in their room. Laura and Remington hadn't even started packing for the trip, yet both were unconcerned. Years of impromptu business trips had allowed them to develop a system for packing in under an hour. The task could be easily completed after their guests departed.

Only when the party was in full swing did Laura relax her vigil. Like Thanksgiving evening, Donald had ensconced himself in front of the television set up by the outdoor fireplace to watch the Alabama Roll Tide take on the Washington Huskies in the Sun Bowl, Danny, Murphy and Monroe keeping him company this evening. Mindy and Laurie Beth had immediately volunteered to watch over Murphy and Sherry's twins, the former enthralled by the young boys and the latter thrilled that she was not the youngest in the room for a change. Abigail, like Thanksgiving, had joined Maxie and Veronica and were enjoying quiet conversation. Remington sat at the end of the dining table entertaining Frances, Sherry and Jocelyn.

Said husband glanced up as Laura was crossing the terrace to join Murphy, Monroe and Donald. Waiting until he caught her eye, he slowly raked his gaze over her from head-to-toe, then, with a flick of tongue to lips that would go unnoticed by others, focused his eyes on her neck. Her mind immediately went to the night before, when he'd paid ample attention to that part of her anatomy, as his warm breath caressed her ear when he spoke softly and his fingers trailed slowly over her body. Her blood heated at the memory, and to her exasperation, she felt her skin warm. The knowing eyes upon her, the smug smile sent her way, made her want to growl. Tearing her eyes away from him, she walked with long, determined strides towards the fireplace.

 _That mannnnnnnn,_ she groused to herself. Even when she thought she had control of the game, he'd simply swipe it from her. Halfway across the terrace, she turned around and returned to the house. "Drastic times call for drastic measures," she muttered under her breath. She paced the kitchen, crossing and recrossing it half a dozen times before a wicked grin slowly traipsed across her face when an idea took form. Thirty seconds later, she walked back out onto the terrace and made a beeline for her cocky husband. Leaning over, she bussed his cheek, slipping something into the rear pocket of his jeans, then giving his bottom a little squeeze. Without a word, she walked to her original destination.

Remington's demeanor never gave a single indication that something was out of the ordinary. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that his beguiling wife had just upped the ante on the little game at play. He'd seen her back straighten in irritation when he'd turned the tables on her. Now the question was what card was she holding up her sleeve.

"Laura looks really good," Sherry observed. "I can't even begin to tell you how worried Murphy's been about her. He barely slept for a month after you recovered her. How is she really doing, Remington?"

"Never missed a step," he prevaricated, certain Laura had told Murphy similar. Undetected he surreptitiously fished out of his pocket what his wife had slipped in there. "The boot will come off in two more weeks and six weeks after that she can resume her training." _What in the bloody hell?_ he wondered at the unmistakable feel of silk against his fingers. He concealed his hand under the shelter of the table.

"Will there be a trial?" she queried further. He nodded.

"In late spring or early summer, from what we hear," he confirmed while peeking at what he held in hand: a scrap of fabric made of silk and lace. _What the… She wouldn't…_

"Will she have to testify?" This from Jocelyn.

"I imagine we both will," he answered, distracted now. He shifted in his seat, seeking out his wife's slim form. Found her, in profile, hugging Murphy. His eyes skimmed her shapely bottom, then lifted his eyes to find her looking at him. Then, vixen that she could be, she smirked at him before turning and walking away with the other man. Remington swallowed hard, unsure if he wanted to ravish or strangle her.

"So tell me, pal, how have you _really_ been doing?" Murphy asked her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Laura reached up and grasped the hand hanging over her shoulder. She glanced sideways at him, then started to answer. "Uh uh. Don't even try lying to me. You won't get away with it in person like you might on the phone. I know you too well, partner." She laughed softly.

"I really _am_ fine, Murph. Some nightmares the first few weeks," she shrugged her shoulders, "But honestly, I'd have to say my ankle has been the worst of it. It effects my job, my ability to train.

"And Steele? How's he held up?" Her face lit up in answer.

"He had his own demons to battle for a little while, yet has still managed to be there for me every step of the way." She couldn't withhold the touch of pride from her voice. They'd rounded the pool by this time and at the flick of her hand took a seat on the side of the chaise lounges, facing one another.

"I've gotta tell you, partner, I don't think I've ever seen you this happy, even in your early days with what's his name." Unconsciously, she stroked her wedding ring as she looked across the terrace for Remington. Monroe had joined he and the ladies while Murphy and she had walked. Their eyes met, before his slipped away to move slowly over her, settling at length upon her breasts before lifting up to meet her eye again, his containing a promise of what would come later that evening. Her imagination took flight and the telltale heat crawled across her skin. _Damn it,_ she scolded herself. She laughed quietly, knowing he was calling her hand.

"I am happy," she told Murphy with a nod. Noting with a sideways glance her husband's gaze still rested on her even as he tried to disguise it, she shifted slightly, allowing her skirt to rise higher on her thighs. Then laughed again as she watched him first sit up a little straighter, then scowl. _Score one for me._

"It looks good on you," he told her sincerely, the laughed suddenly. "Who'd have thought, huh? Steele, of all people?" Her laughter joined his.

"He and I are more alike than you might think," she shrugged. "How are things with you and Sherry, the boys?"

"We have a good life and the agency is growing every day. Did I ever tell you I brought Steven in as my partner?" Steven was Murphy's older brother, who, last Laura had heard, was in the Army working within the CID (Criminal Investigation Division).

"No. He left the Army?"

"Retired after twenty years, six months back. Sat for his exam as he was PCS'ing out. Has his full investigative license."

"Jamie and the kids? How are they taking the transition?"

"They love being near the family in Denver. How are things with the Agency?" Laura's smile grew wider again.

"Despite the number of our absences these last months, business has stayed strong. Of course, the international publicity hasn't hurt in that area." She nibbled at her lower lip for a second. "We're expanding in March. Taking over the suite next door, hiring a couple of new investigators."

"Finally deciding to hand off some of the work load?" For Murphy, it was an idea difficult to fathom: Laura having a life outside of her work. She shrugged in answer.

"Last summer, Remington and I had already declared a moratorium on working after six during the week and on the weekends… except where the case absolutely requires. The security and investigative sides of the Agency are in high demand and once Mildred is licensed, we'll be adding a forensic accounting area." She held out her hands palms up. "If we want the Agency to continue to grow, we simply need more hands on deck."

"Security side." Murphy barked a laugh. "Talk about putting the fox in charge of the hen house." She laughed with him.

"Who better than a reformed thief to spot the holes in a system? Mr. Steele's services are commanded precisely because of those skills." She glanced up to see Remington rapidly approaching them. "Speak of the devil…" She smiled as Remington leaned down to buss her on the cheek, then remained leaning down with a hand between her shoulders to speak with her.

"We've a number of guests who seem to believe Christmas carols are called for before the evening ends. To that end, we'll need a certain talented pianist…" Nodding, she stood while his hand slid down to rest against her waist.

"I think that can be arranged," she agreed. "Murph here actually has a fairly decent singing voice." Murphy rose, shaking his head adamantly.

"The hell I do. You're not doing it to me again this year, Laura. Nuh-uh. No how." He cut his hands, palms down in front of him, indicating the definitiveness of his statement. Remington looked questioningly between the two of them. "She did this to me every year at Havenhurst, then would sit back and laugh as I tried to croak my way through _Santa Claus is Coming to Town._ " He turned his attention back to her. "Not a single note will pass these lips, partner, you can count on it." With that parting vow, he went to join Sherry.

Remington stepped to face Laura.

"I believe you made your point," he told her in a quiet undertone. She widened her eyes, trying to look innocent of the unspoken charges.

"Why Mr. Steele, I'm sure I have no idea what you mean…" she drawled coquettishly. His lips twitched with amusement. He took a step closer to her.

"It's a dangerous game you're playing… _Mrs. Steele_ ," he warned quietly. He ran the back of his fingers down her arm, while darkening blue eyes skimmed her slim form.

"Oh? How so?" she managed, tipping up her chin and smirking at him.

"Unlike that wanker Jeffries, I'm neither intimidated by this side of you, nor wish to repress it." He took another step closer, his fingers daring to stroke the side of her hip. Her lips parted and skin flushed in reaction. Giving herself a mental shake, she rolled her eyes upward and tapped a finger to her lips as though trying to jog a memory loose.

"Funny, I don't r _ecall_ doing a fan dance this evening." A corner of his mouth lifted, but he managed to suppress his laugh. Grabbing her by her hand, he pulled her behind him into the house. "We've an important matter to attend to," he told Murphy as they passed. "Shouldn't be but ten minutes or so."

Laura's eyes widened at Remington's words, and, when Murphy guffawed, she gave serious consideration to putting her heel into the insteps of both men. Before she could form a retort, she found herself in their office, the door shutting firmly behind them and the lock snicking into place. Then before she could compute even a single syllable of a single thought, she found her lips being devoured, as a hand burrowed into her hair, and a very masculine body pressed her between himself and a wall as his free hand wandered hungrily over her body. The smell of his cologne mixing with his own potent scent, the taste of him as his tongue slipped between her lips to engage hers in an erotic dance, sent shockwaves through her. She moaned low in her throat, while the fingers of one hand gripped his hair and the other clutched at his back, drawing a groan from deep within his chest. His hand slipped lower to grasp the hem of her skirt and pull it upwards. She had no idea where she found the fortitude to pry her mouth away from his.

"We can't be doing this," she panted. His hand smoothed the collar of her dress away from her neck, and his mouth fed hungrily on her skin, nipping, and suckling until she gasped. He'd marked her, they both knew it, and he seemed intent to do it again as his mouth wandered across her collar bone.

"Why not?" he asked, the demand muffled against her skin, his breath heating it, as his fingers gathered the material of her skirt and eased it further upwards.

"Oh god," she moaned again, then squeezing her eyes shut, forced her arms between them. Flattening her palms against his chest, she shoved him back, his mouth releasing the skin of her collarbone with a small pop. "We have guests waiting on us!" she reminded him, barely able to hear herself past her pulse pounding in her ears.

"I don't give a damn," he told her, chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes white hot with need. He pounced again, capturing her lips with his, a breast with the palm of a hand. Her knees nearly buckled at the intensity of his desire which was only sending her own into the stratosphere.

"Oh god," she murmured, when his lips left hers to trail along her jaw, while his thumb teased her nipple through dress and bra. "We can't," she nearly whined, wanting him as badly as he did her.

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?" he managed, before his mouth settled below her ear to lave.

"Yes… No! I mean yes, but after everyone left," she said breathily. "Remington!" He pushed himself away from her and crossed the room, raking his fingers through his hair. When he turned to look at her, his coloring was high, his breathing short and hard, yet still he managed to plaster a smug smile across his face. "I believe, then, we have a clear victor in our little game this evening, don't we." It took a long second for her passion-soaked brain to fully understand what he meant. By the time she did, he'd wiped her lipstick off his mouth with a handkerchief and had crossed the room. He leaned on a hand braced against the wall, coming nearly nose-to-nose with her. "I've no problem having a quick shag with you in a house full of people, love. These little games of yours? Positively intoxicating," he told her quietly while lifting a brow at her. "However, unless you wish me to haul you straight back in here to finish what we've started, you might wish to put these," he held up his hand, the panties swinging from a single finger, "back where they belong."

Giving her another hard, swift kiss, he opened the office door and left, leaving her behind wondering how and when she'd lost control of the game.

Smoothing back her hair, righting her crooked Santa hat and repairing her clothing, Laura followed Remington out of the room shortly thereafter. Everyone was gathered in the living room awaiting her arrival and she hoped with all her being that her icy calm demeanor was firmly in place, although she feared it was anything but. Sitting at the piano, she waited for Frances and Abigail to move alongside her before she played the first notes of _The Christmas Song._ Soon, nearly everyone in the room had joined in, except Remington, who contented himself by watching his wife play and sing.

By ten o'clock the house had cleared out given Frances and Donald were to depart early for Vail, while Remington, Laura, Monroe and Jocelyn would need to depart the house by six-thirty in the morning for their flights to Cannes. Monroe and Jocelyn retired to the guest room while Remington and Laura turned their focus to packing.

Unlike his normal garrulous self, post such festivities, Remington was oddly silent… introspective… as they packed, his need for physical contact more pronounced than normal, which was saying something for a man who stole small touches throughout every day. Oh, he answered any questions Laura had about the number of formal and informal outfits they'd need for the trip, but missing was the way he'd normally rehash events of the evening. His mood did not, however, make her feel unsettled herself as it would have in years past. Rather, she determined to wait it out, knowing he'd talk about whatever it was on his mind when he was ready.

As Remington took the bags downstairs, Laura prepared for bed. Stripping out of her dress, she slipped on one of his pajama tops. Removing the minimal make up she'd worn on the evening, she was brushing out her hair when he returned to their room. Entering the bathroom, he slipped an arm around her waist, and with the other hand tugged the collar of her top over her shoulder before feathering his lips over the bruise he'd left at the base of her neck earlier.

"Laura," he breathed against her skin. Setting the brush on the counter, she stared at their reflection, almost missing the stormy blue eyes that flicked upwards then back down. Turning around, she threaded her fingers through his hair then drew his head upwards so their lips could meet.

While their lovemaking was never without an undertone of emotion, there was an extra layer of richness to it on this evening. He seemed determined to devote himself to bringing her to the brink of ecstasy again and again, while she proved equally committed to using touch to sooth while bringing him exquisite pleasure and, words to tease while expressing abiding devotion. Afterwards, exhausted and thoroughly sated in body and heart, they lay facing one another, her leg slung over his hip to keep him close, while her fingers wended through his hair, stroked face and shoulder and her lips trailed occasional kisses along his jaw and neck. His own hand whispered over her back and tangled in her hair, his lips often seeking hers to linger, taste. Only after she'd given in to sleep, did he lean down and press a kiss to her forehead before extracting himself from her embrace and leaving their bed.

She woke sometime later, unsure how much time had passed, although judging by the coolness of the sheets under her touch, he'd left some time ago. Shrugging into her robe, she went in search of him, finding him, at last, sitting in a chaise on the terrace, lost in thought. She reached out and lightly caressed the top of his head.

"Would you like company?" she asked quietly. His hand captured hers, tugging it gently.

"Always," he answered. He waited for her to settle between his legs, resting her back against his chest. She claimed his left hand for her own, and in a ritual once again too long overlooked, began to trace his palm with a single finger. He closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath and letting it out slowly at the sweet familiarity.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she inquired softly. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly once more.

"A bit… out of sorts… I suppose." She nodded, then held her silence, concentrating on using touch to relax him. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. "I miss Daniel and am feeling a bit foolish for it. It's not as though we've seen a good deal of one another these last years, yet it occurred to me this evening he'd have found a great deal of amusement at the picture of domesticity we painted today, from the exchange of presents at the side of a tree to carols around the piano. I could almost hear him say, 'How very pedestrian of you, Harry, my boy.'" He laughed, a bit sadly. Her hand paused, as the old worries that he'd eventually tire of this life seeped in.

"And would you agree?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay neutral.

"Good Lord, no," he replied quickly, bussing the top of her head. He held his peace again while she refocused her attentions on his hand. "It's the first Christmas I've ever truly known, Laura. It was… memorable."

"In a good way, I hope."

"Mmmmm, very much so. Perhaps it is because it was that I find myself a bit off balance." She cocked her head to the side, unsure what he meant.

"Oh?"

"Regrets. Hopes." He pondered, trying to figure out how to put it into words without sounding like a namby-pamby. Her thumb settled over the back of his ring, stroking it.

"Regrets about the Christmases you never knew as a child?" she finally asked. He mulled the suggestion, then shook his head to the contrary.

"No. Those days are well and gone. Any regrets won't change what was." Silence stretched again, thick and heavy. "Pedestrian in his eyes or not, I suppose I just wish Daniel had been here to see… what we've created here. What we _will_ create, someday." He reached for a strand of her hair and toyed with it between finger and thumb. "Whatever his faults, he would have made an outstanding grandfather, Laura." She nodded slowly, lifting his hand and pressing lips to palm.

"I could see that." Her fingers returned to his palm, waiting him out again.

"It was a rather… momentous… Christmas, love."

"It was. Your citizenship…"

"The Agency…"

"The decision to stop trying not to…" Once again, conversation stilled. Remington wrapped both of his arms around her and laced her fingers with his. His embrace, the warmth of his body against her lulled. She nearly started when he spoke again.

"Does it scare you, Laura?" The question had been exceedingly difficult for him to ask, not only because it revealed he had fears of his own, but because he was afraid of what her answer might be as well.

"Which 'it'? That last year this time we were committed, had figured out neither of us functions well without the other any longer, yet we had no real plans for the future? Now, we're married, own a home together, are full partners in the Agency, and are planning to start a family, no matter how we dress the last up? Hell yes, all of it scares me." She felt some of the tension in his body dissipate at her words.

"A lot of changes, eh?" he pondered.

"Yes. All of them frightening in their own way. But, that said, I think we're doing well where our marriage is concerned. And our home? I love everything about it. It's the perfect blending of the two of us. I can't imagine us being anywhere else." He tightened his arms around her slightly and rested his chin on the top of her head.

"And the Agency?" She laughed softly.

"I don't see anything changing there. You and I have battled for the upper hand, have argued about cases, since almost the beginning. None of that's going stop, at least from what I can see. I hope it doesn't," she shrugged. "Half the fun of working with you is our banter, our arguments, trying to outwit one another." That drew a chuckle from him and a nuzzle of his chin against her hair.

"And the last?"

"Having a child?" She could feel his nod. "Remington, I would think _both_ of us out of our minds if the idea of having a child didn't scare the hell out of us. Neither of us exactly had stellar role models where parenting is concerned. I may have had both of my parents in the same house most of my childhood, but their marriage wasn't what you could call healthy. And you've seen my mother. If you didn't conform with her idea of who and what you should be…" She shook her head and let out a frustrated breath. "I don't want a child growing up in a home like that, always feeling they are never, will never be, quite enough."

"And how do we assure we don't muck this up? Eh?" His question drew a soft laugh from her.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll make buckets full of mistakes. It's unavoidable, I think. But look at us. Look at what we've managed to do. Marriage, home, business. No matter how many mistakes we've made or the number of roadblocks thrown in our way, all of those are successful, at least in my eyes. Something tells me we'll approach parenting just as we have all the rest, as a team."

"'All for one and one for all', eh? _The Three Musketeers,_ Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, Raquel Welch, Twentieth Century Fox, 1973. Dreadful movie, salient point." She laughed, the sound music to his ears.

"To a degree, although I'd hope it won't come to us drawing swords." He chuckled softly again, then pulled a hand back from hers to lay it on her stomach, his thumb stroking it.

"Ah, Laura, it's both frightening and exhilarating to think we could have possibly created a life tonight… a child… Our child." Her hand covered his again.

"It is." She shifted in his embrace so she could look up at him. "Remington, there's nothing written in stone that we have to do this here and now. It's as simple as me going upstairs to our bedroom and taking a pill. I haven't missed one yet." Her eyes narrowed when he grimaced and averted his face.

"Perhaps not as simple as that." Her brow furrowed, perplexed.

"What do you mean?"

"It's possible… just possible, mind you… in my… enthusiasm… over the gift I received, I may have flushed that recourse, quite literally, down the drain." She rolled her eyes skyward and shook her head before looking at him again.

"You thought I'd change my mind," she accused mildly, nodding her head as she spoke.

"The thought may have occurred to me," he hedged. She could only shake her head at him again.

"Even if I were to call Dr. Adam's service tonight, there would be no way to fill a prescription before we leave in the morning. So that leaves either condoms or…" she scrunched her nose "…abstinence." It had been difficult enough denying what they both wanted for four years when she could only imagine what making love to him would be like. But now that she did and knew precisely what she'd be missing?

Remington mentally rejected both ideas immediately. Before they'd ever turned that corner, crossed that line, Laura had been adamant that she wanted no barriers between them, thus why she had gone on the pill. Now that he knew the wonder of her surrounding him, the idea was unfathomable. And abstinence? Hell would likely freeze over first. It had taken him four years to have her, and now that he knew the complexity, the richness of loving her, he'd not willingly give that up for a day let alone near on a month.

And, as distasteful as those two options were, there was one reason that trumped all others: No matter his fears and doubts, he wanted to have a child with the woman he held within his arms more than anything he'd ever wanted before, except the woman herself. The mere idea of watching her body ripen while their child grew within sent a thrill coursing through is body. He imagined he could spend the better part of each day dreaming of who their child would look like, whether it would be a son or daughter. The idea of watching his child being born into this world… of Laura holding him or her… Well, the mere thought left his heart flopping about.

In that moment, he realized in offering him the opportunity to take a step back, to reassess, she had proven precisely why they would not simply be adequate parents but might even excel: When one of them stumbled, the other was always there holding out a hand to help them up. Oh, they would both struggle in the days and months ahead as both of their lives had taught them well all that could go wrong and the myriad of ways an adult could fail a child. He imagined while it was she propping him up today, tomorrow it could be very well he, her. It was all part and parcel of who they were as partners, as husband and wife.

Remington launched his body out from behind Laura so suddenly that he startled her, then promptly confounded her when he held out a hand to her. She looked at him questioningly but still lay her hand in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. His hand buried itself in the silk of her hair, while his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

"I've another idea in mind all together," he told her gruffly, his blue eyes gazing upon her face intently. She grazed a hand up his arm and over his shoulder, until her fingers rested at the back of his neck to toy with his hair, her brown eyes shining up at him in the moonlight.

"Oh? And what is that?" He drew her lips up to his, barely glancing against them, teasingly, drawing a smile from her.

"Practice, Mrs. Steele," he answered, bending at the knees and lifting her easily into his arms. "Lots and lots of practice at not trying not to." Her arms slipped around his neck and she raised her brows at him.

"Well, I do believe, Mr. Steele, that practice makes perfect," she drawled as he carried her through the French doors, kicking it shut behind them.

"A commitment on your part that I am forever appreciative of," he grinned. She pursed her lips in amusement.

"So long as it's something in which you find interest," she noted. He waggled his brows at her, taking the steps two at a time.

"Oh, I assure you I'm interested. Positively enthralled, as a matter of fact." She rolled her eyes at him.

"You don't say," she said drily. Her eyes caught sight of the alarm as he lay her down on their bed. "We have to be up in less than three hours," she noted, her eyes returning him to watch as he stripped off his robe, then joined her on the bed, stretching out atop her, bearing his weight on his arms while his hands buried themselves in her tresses.

"We'll sleep on the plane," he insisted, lowering his head to devour her lips in a lusty little kiss, grinning at her when their lips parted. She cupped his neck in one of her hands while the other stroked down his back.

"I guess we will," she agreed urging his head back down towards her, then as their lips hovered mere millimeters apart whispered, "Happy Christmas, Remington." He lay a hand against her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheek, his blue eyes meeting with and holding her brown eye.

"Merry Christmas, Laura," he whispered in return, then leaned down to cover her lips with his as the thought occurred to him it had, indeed, been a Merry Christmas filled with memories he'd hold close for a lifetime.


	31. Epilogue

Epilogue

"No, Laura!" Remington all but shouted as he yanked his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I need to know, Remington!" she yelled back just as loudly, slinging the pictures across the bed towards him. "Why? Why us? Why!?"

"What does it _matter_?! The man's behind bars! He won't be coming for us again… Ever!... if I have a say in the matter at all."

"What does it matter?!" She threw her hands up in the air in utter frustration. "Conchita Guitierrez, remember her? A woman _died_ because of us! I was kidnapped, drugged, beaten…" she choked on the words, and drawing a deep breath, forced them past her lips, "… nearly raped, watched you bleeding on a floor, only to be taken again! What does it matter?!" She threw her hands up again. "How can you even _ask_ that?"

"You think I've forgotten for a minute the harm he did to you? That I don't recall the days I lived in fear of not seeing you again, wondering what was happening to you by his hands? That I could ever…" his voice cracked, his eyes almost wild from the memories "…forget how I found you, the doctor's telling me I might lose you, only to watch the man hold a gun to your head in Greece? But trying to figure out the motives of a madman can't undo what was done!" He turned his back and paced across the room, swiping at his face with a hand.

"We need to know!" she insisted vehemently. "What did he mean when he told me you'd 'gotten in the way' of what he wanted most? Something from your past? A case from my past? A case we both worked on? If we crossed him, how do we know he wasn't working in concert with someone else that may come after us in the same way?"

"How do we ever know?" he countered. "Dominick and Sebastian in Acapulco – a diamond smuggling ring. Certainly it spanned more than just the two of them. Did we attempt to uncover their associates? No, we didn't! Conant, Haddon and Asuda. We crossed them, and I can quite assure you there were other parties damaged from our efforts. Did we pursue them? No, we didn't! If we've learned one thing from past cases it's that there is always someone ready to perforate us for our efforts. But we don't go haring off looking for the reason as to why!"

"Listen to me!" she demanded. "You're not being reasonable. You're acting purely on emotion. We—"

"Am I?" he interrupted. "Am I the one acting on emotion? It seems to me that would be you." She saw red at the accusation, and as was her habit when pushed too far, she planted her feet.

"I'm not arguing about this anymore. We're doing this and that, is that!" She cut her hands in front of her body, indicating the finality of her decision, then watched as her husband's demeanor turned ice cold.

"Back to that, are we then?" He was no longer shouting, but speaking in a deadly calm voice that chilled her to the very bone. "Miss Holt speaks, and I, the errant schoolboy, am expected to fall straight into line, eh?" He shook his head in disgust. "I thought we'd long ago gotten past this bit, but apparently not." Long strides took him across the bedroom to their door.

"We're not done discussing this!" she called after him, even as she knew it was a mistake. If ever there was a time to retreat and regroup, this was it but she was so irritated by his refusal to listen, to get on board, that she threw caution to the wind. He spun on his heel to face her, more furious than she'd ever seen him.

"You do what you have to do, Miss Holt. We both know you will anyway. But you'll do it on your own. I'll have no part of it." With those words, he left their room, slamming the door behind him. Less than fifteen seconds later, she heard the front door slam in his wake as he left the house.

Wearily, she sat down on the edge of the bed lifting her head up towards the ceiling. Lifting a hand to her brow she began to knead. Finally, with a shake of her head, she opened up the bedside table and pulled out her address book. Flipping through the book until she found the listing she was looking for, she picked up the phone and dialed, then waited until someone picked up on the other end of the line.

"Yes. Can you please tell me when your next flight is to Trenton, New Jersey?"


End file.
